


The War of the Undead

by Sunnyrea



Category: 18th Century CE RPF, American Revolution RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Zombies, Historical, Horror, M/M, Original Character(s), Valley Forge, Zombies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-30
Updated: 2018-11-15
Packaged: 2019-08-11 00:07:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 29,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16464932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sunnyrea/pseuds/Sunnyrea
Summary: It has been more than three weeks since the beginning of this new horror in their war. The first man who appeared in their camp, dead yet still walking, wore a red coat – a private of the British regulars. He attacked more than a dozen men before he was stopped.  It took almost eight days from there to realize the truth of their situation.





	1. Chapter 1

John Laurens wakes slowly, some sound at the edge of his senses pulling him from his rest. He blinks twice to chase the sleep away, the sound becoming more apparent, something like a bump or a knock, as if upon a door. He breathes slowly, seeing red curls before his face and he smiles. He slides his arm around the man in front of him under the blankets, holds him close for just a moment. Alexander Hamilton makes a small sound in his sleep, something happy and content. Then Laurens hears the sound again, not just a knock but a scraping and a groan.

“Lord…”

Laurens rolls over quietly and rises from the bed, picking up his breeches as he joins Tench Tilghman standing near the window.

“More?” Laurens asks.

Tilghman, standing near dressed but for his coat, nods once. “A lieutenant I knew…”

Laurens gazes out the window at their new fortifications, a hasty fence of sharpened logs, sticks, any timber they had available to create a barrier twenty feet out around General Washington’s headquarters here at Valley Forge enclosing the house, the kitchen and barn. 

“Where?”

Tilghman points with his finger against the glass to the far right of the ring, nearer the kitchens. A man in a torn uniform, blood crusted around his ear, struggles against branches now tangled with his limps. But no, he is not a man, not anymore.

“You knew him?”

Tilghman nods again. “Not well, a relation of a friend but…”

“Yes. No man should be reduced to such a state.”

The man – no the creature – continues to try and walk through the protruding wood. The sharper branches pierce its uniform, scratches forming on its gray skin. If Laurens did not wish to wake the rest of the room behind him, he would shoot the thing from this window.

“Why, Laurens, why this…” Tilghman asks quietly.

“You know I cannot answer you.”

“But how then, how can…” Tilghman cuts himself off with a harsh breath.

“How can the dead rise again?” Laurens asks, his voice icy. “It is a story we have heard but never one we thought to live; and I can but only blame the barbarism of the British as to this plague they bring upon us.”

Laurens turns sharply from the window and begins to dress. He steps around Meade, still breathing quietly on the palette on the floor. 

It has been more than three weeks since the beginning of this new horror in their war. The first man who appeared in their camp, dead yet still walking, wore a red coat – a private of the British regulars. He attacked more than a dozen men before he was stopped. It took almost eight days from there to realize the truth of their situation, of how a bite from one of these walking corpses would create the same in the man he bit; how only a shot or knife to the head could stop the monster it made. Yet, by then it was too late, soldiers all over the camp were bitten and turned, even camp followers and servants. Riders sent out to seek help either did not return or spoke of the terror starting to spread into the civilian population.

They tried to fight back, to contain the dead and save the living, yet their army is thousands and when a man does not stay dead it becomes harder to fight. They were forced to fall back, Generals pulling as many living soldiers as they could into their different headquarters and wait for some plan. 

General Washington’s headquarters is full in every room now attempting to shelter those they can. General Wayne and his aide share the larger aide-de-camp bedroom with aides Robert Hanson Harrison and John Fitzgerald as well as Captain Caleb Gibbs of the Life Guard and two of his men on the floor. Up in the garret, more than a dozen soldiers and servants share the cramped space, arrived from all over camp. Four stand guard in that room in shifts at all times of the night, keeping watch for more of the undead who could make their way toward their haven. More men sleep in the downstairs aide office, soldiers from other brigades. Even the General and Mrs. Washington opened their room for General Greene and his wife to sleep in safety here. Now their space and their food run dangerously short.

“Laurens?” Laurens turns his head to Hamilton as he rolls over in bed, his eyes suddenly awake and alert. “What is it?”

“No cause for alarm,” Laurens says as he buttons the last of his breeches and picks up his waistcoat. 

“Not yet,” Tilghman says grimly.

Hamilton’s eyes tick to Tilghman for a moment, his mouth pressing tight. Then he looks at Laurens again. Laurens shakes his head once and steps closer. He touches Hamilton’s cheek, his fingers twisting in Hamilton’s hair. Hamilton reaches up and puts his hand over Laurens’ but neither of them say anything. Hamilton pulls Laurens’ hand down and squeezes once. Laurens wants to kiss Hamilton but their affection already shows too far. He wants to tell Hamilton how he fears for their survival, how he would stand in front of Hamilton no matter how dire the situation, how Laurens cannot lose Hamilton, not to something as horrid as this.

Laurens nods once at Hamilton then stands up straight again. He glances at Tilghman, Tilghman eyes ticked toward them. Tilghman looks sharply away when he sees Laurens looking. With Tilghman and Meade now sharing their room and the probability of death even closer than war allows, Laurens and Hamilton gave up the pretense of hiding the nature of their intimate relationship from the other two men. If they are so much more likely to die, then Laurens refuses to not have one last kiss or touch of Hamilton’s hand, at least in the relative privacy of this one room. With the horde of undead before their doors, Tilghman and Meade were remarkably less phased by such a revelation.

“The sun is only now risen,” Hamilton says as he stands from the cot, Meade making noises of awaking as well on the floor. “We should hurry below. A rider may make it through this morning and we need news.”

“There are few undead on the fortifications,” Tilghman says, “but I can see many beyond stumbling about in the snow.”

“More than last evening?”

Tilghman glances back at Hamilton. “It is Gibbs who counts, not I.”

Hamilton frowns. “But surely you could tell if –”

“I do not know, I cannot stand the sight of them, why should ask me to look longer!”

Hamilton and Laurens glance at each other quickly.

“Tench.” Meade stands from his palette – breeches slept in, his shirt rumbled but a smile somehow on his face. “Come now.” He grips Tilghman’s arm. “Do not berate Hamilton so early. You must save this for later when I can properly join you, as I am barely awake now. I am sure Hamilton should deserve your ire more then.”

Tilghman’s lips quirk slightly but he crosses his arms, pulling away from Meade. Meade cocks his head and gives Tilghman a disapproving look, like a teacher with a naughty student.

“Now Tench, here.” He gestures with his palm toward the window. “Why not look at our guests? It is a fine example of the variety of uniforms in our forces. Why such an array of shades, some blue and green and trimmings of red, I think the gaiters on that creature there a purple!”

Tilghman laughs then, turning back to the window. “Certainly not, you must jest.”

Meade grins and nods. “Yes, I do. Who should wear purple in the army? How could you think so?”

“Yes, yes,” Tilghman says staring out of the window. “A purple on the white of snow would be far too extravagant.”

“Exactly, and far from regulation,” Meade says, his mirth lessening some as they two of them watch the poor lost sounds beyond their wall, dozens of frozen corpses shambling through the snow, waiting for warm blood to near.

Hamilton steps closer to Laurens as Laurens pulls his coat over his shoulders. Hamilton buttons his waistcoat, his shoulder brushing Laurens’. 

“I think Meade more a blessing than any of us could deserve,” Hamilton whispers. “How he can even muster a false cheer I know not.”

Laurens clicks his teeth and drops his arms after fixing his collar. “One of us must.”

Hamilton looks at him again. “Can you?”

“I can find some satisfaction at least to see you still warm and breathing here, not lost yet.”

Hamilton chuckles once. “Perhaps less than warm.”

Laurens nods and smiles. “Let us descend.”

Hamilton picks up his coat, the two of them pulling on their boots while standing, and then leave the room, Meade and Tilghman finally falling into their own clothing. On the first floor, servants and soldiers roll up sleeping pallets, shoving as many as should fit in the space under the stairs. A harried looking woman from the kitchens passes between the activity, passing out cups less than half full with some steaming drink, be it tea or coffee or only water, it is hard to tell. 

“Five men to clear the walls,” Hamilton says as he takes a cup from the girl. “And then I want a count of dead still walking we can see.”

“Yes, sir,” one man calls.

“Any new living in the night?” Harrison asks as he steps out from the aide-de-camp office, the sound of tables scaping on wood behind him.

“No, sir,” one chilled looking Private answers. “But a horse.”

“A horse?” Laurens and Harrison say at the same time.

“Yes, it came galloping from the north side with three undead in its wake. We managed to open the gate for it safely and find it space in the barn.”

Laurens glances at Hamilton. 

“A rider?” Hamilton asks.

“It must be,” Harrison replies so both men turn to him. “What living horses we retain sequester in our barn. Blast.” Harrison shakes his head then looks at the Private again. “Did the saddle bags contain any letters? Any sort of word?”

The Private smiles. “Yes, sir. I gave it straight to his Excellency, sir.”

The three aides look at each other again then to the closed door of General Washington’s office.

Laurens turns back to the man. “Thank you, Private.” He waves at the stairs. “Go on, get some sleep.”

The Private ducks quickly around them, taking a cup from the girl just before she leaves by the side door toward the kitchen again. Most of the beds are away now and a line of soldiers exit through the front door to their work of securing the fortifications for the day forward.

“Do you think it word from outside?” Laurens asks.

“I think it unlikely, more from one of our own,” Harrison says.

“Lafayette?” Hamilton asks, blowing on his drink.

Laurens makes a small noise. “It has been a week with nothing from him…”

“He is not fallen,” Hamilton hisses harshly. “I cannot believe it!”

“General Varnum is fallen.”

The three men turn as the door to General Washington’s office opens and Fitzgerald walks out. “His headquarters was overrun only a day past.” Fitzgerald holds up the letter. “From General Knox. His house still remains fast, but he fears it will not last long.”

“Varnum…” Hamilton whispers.

“Does he write of any of the others?” Laurens asks, “Maxwell? Lafayette? The Baron?”

Fitzgerald shakes his head. “No, but he writes that the undead are not merely our soldiers now. They see common clothes among them as well.”

“Camp followers?” Harrison asks with hope to his voice that his expression does not share.

Fitzgerald shakes his head again. “Knox writes of seeing a lady in the snow, a fine yellow dress with pink ribbon… her hands black with rot and her eyes…”

“Enough,” Hamilton interrupts, handing his cup roughly to Harrison. “We have seen it enough ourselves.”

“But perhaps less ladies.”

The men all turn to Mrs. Washington at the base of the stairs.

“Madam, we would not have had you heard…” Harrisons says by way of apology.

She shakes her head, some hair loose but most of her still as fine in her blue dress and gloves on her hands. “I can see it well from where I stand, you need not shield me.”

“If only you were not here madam,” Hamilton says. “You and Mrs. Greene should not be so subjected.”

“And why not?” Mrs. Washington says, her voice grim. “We see how far this threat spreads now. Be it better I wait in my home to be overrun without my husband beside me? No, sirs.” She looks sharply at the office door. “I assume General Washington is within?”

“Yes,” Laurens says and, before he may even think of stopping her, she marches past them, opens the door and enters, the door shut again before any of the four may speak.

“Perhaps she may convince him,” Fitzgerald whispers.

“We need not retreat yet,” Laurens says to Fitzgerald’s unasked question – the one they all think on, abandoning Valley Forge. “There is time.”

“Is there?” Fitzgerald asks harshly. “Varnum is fallen. We hear only from Knox. What if the rest are gone? What if this is our army.” He waves a hand about the house.

“Enough,” Harrison says harshly. He points at their aide-de-camp office. “Inside. We must review the supplies we have and how much longer we may make them last.” He points at Laurens and Hamilton with his hand holding the cup. “I want status on munitions as well. Then I want some reply and a ready man to attempt the ride back to Knox. We cannot let them think themselves alone.” Harrison then turns and marches into their office.

“What do they talk on now?” Hamilton asks Fitzgerald.

He stares at the pair of them quickly then blows out a breath. “They talk on the possibility of retaking our camp.”

Laurens raises his eyebrows. “Take it back?”

“There are thousands of the undead now,” Hamilton hisses. “How many living have we? Do we even know?”

Fitzgerald nods. “They talk just the same, but Wayne would not give up without a fight. Greene is more resigned to the defeat, his wife I think a factor.”

“And General Washington?” Laurens asks.

Fitzgerald only shakes his head and turns into their office. Hamilton suddenly grips Laurens’ hand. He threads their fingers and Laurens squeezes his hand back. Laurens cannot help but feel much as General Wayne; he would not give the ground of their own encampment away especially when the undead are their own men who deserve proper death and not this in-between horror; and certainly not when it is clear the British brought this sin upon them. Laurens squeezes Hamilton’s hand harder in his anger – the savagery, the unholy act, the horrific choice of attack from their enemy.

“Shh,” Hamilton says touching Laurens’ arm with his other hand, clearly telling Laurens’ mind by the grasp of his hand. “This is what is before us and, whatever the decision, we will fight, yes?”

“Yes,” Laurens says looking down at Hamilton. “And survive.”

Another part of Laurens wants to put himself and Hamilton on a horse alone, to ride away and fight past the undead plague for their own safety – for Hamilton’s safety – away from this hell.

They pull their hands apart and walk into the office. The four aides sit at their desks, General Wayne’s aide also with them as well, stoking the small fire burning with what appears to be a chair.

“The guards of last night report only three dozen dead in our near lawn,” Fitzgerald says to Harrison. “Some may have wandered away into the woods or drawn off by whatever animals remain.”

“That is less indeed,” Harrison says. “I hope that a good.”

Hamilton shuffles paper before him, “And how many men in our own house now? I know our flour still stocked, but meat?”

Laurens shakes his head. “We cannot sacrifice another horse, or will we have no chance of sending letters when needed.”

“I know.”

Harrison makes a frustrated noise then stands, holding out Knox’s letter. “A reply if you please, at least a start of how we remain here.”

“Should we not wait until His Excellency decides on an action?” Hamilton asks, “They speak on it now.”

“I can check,” Wayne’s aide says and quickly ducks out of the office.

Fitzgerald watches the man then swivels his head back around to Hamilton. “We do not know if they should decide anything today.”

“We have checked the powder and shot.” Laurens looks up as Tilghman and Meade come in, Laurens just now noticing the sound he had heard of a door closing. Meade shakes snow from his hat as he speaks. “The stash in the barn is still sound and Gibbs plans to make a try for the hill and the stores there.”

“He thinks some left?” Harrison asks.

“On their last attempt they could only raid one hut before too many undead came upon them,” Tilghman answers. “He says there is another.”

“And where should we keep it all?” Hamilton asks. “Our fort here is only so large.”

“And not so large at all,” Meade mutters.

“Keep your counsel,” Harrison snaps, “we will find space even if we must build a hut from our tables out on the very lawn!”

The men all dip their heads in some chastisement. Laurens tries as best he can but the positive of their situation dwindles each day and they have little left to fuel their spirits, not when they must watch dead eyes and dead feet walk so near every morning and night. Hamilton glances at Laurens, seated beside him. His hand twitches like he wants to grip Laurens’. Laurens wants to hold him close, to whisper promises and care, that they will not die here, not like this.

Tilghman walks closer to Laurens’ table now, his head tilting. Laurens sees him gazing out the window behind Laurens, a frown on his face. “Is that…”

Suddenly a shout comes from outside the house, “Runner! A runner!”

Every man in the room jumps up to look from the windows. Laurens presses his face close and indeed he sees what looks like four men running across the distant snow. Half a dozen dead follow them, slower but insistent. The undead around their own house start to take notice, turning at the sound of living feet. The guards within the walls pull their rifles but seem unsure what to do.

“Four men,” Harrison says. “If they keep pace…”

“But the undead here,” Meade hisses.

Then Laurens sees the riband across the chest of the one man – an aide-de-camp. The man shoots over his shoulder and when his head turns back Laurens recognizes the face. 

“It’s Walker!” Laurens says.

“Benjamin Walker?” Hamilton says. “The Baron’s –”

“Yes…” Then Laurens sees the man nearest Walker, it is William North, another of the Baron’s aides-de-camp as Walker is. He stumbles in the snow, losing ground. “They will not make it.” Laurens hisses.

Laurens turns around and pushes past the other men. He hurries to the front door and grabs a sword and baldric – weapons now always waiting at the door. He throws it over his head and grabs one of the ready pistols, shoving it into his belt.

“Laurens, wait!” Hamilton shouts from the office.

But Laurens opens the front door and runs out into the snow. The three men outside on duty jerk in surprise. 

“Shoot them!” Laurens shouts pointing toward the nearest dead as he runs. Then he points at one man nearest the wall. “Open the gate!”

Laurens does not slow down even as the man stumbles toward the gate, not questioning Laurens’ momentum. Laurens hears shouts behind him. He sees the gate moving open, just enough space for him. Laurens races through and pulls his sword from its sheath. A rotting face turns to him, hands outstretched and Laurens slashes straight through the arms, its hands severed under his blow. He slips on the snow as he skids around the slower dead but he does not fall or stop. Laurens keeps moving and now hears feet behind him. Suddenly Hamilton runs alongside him, an angry expression on his face as he pants in the cold. Laurens glances back and sees Tilghman behind them, two other soldiers Laurens knows from the Life Guard with them.

“We get to them and right back!” Laurens shouts as Hamilton flings a wild stab with a dagger in his hand at a former Lieutenant groaning toward them. 

“Hamilton and I shall gain them…” Laurens huffs, “once we reach…” He shoots a look back at the other three men, “Guard the rear on our retreat until… until we reach them!”

“Yes!” Tilghman shouts back as he dodges the reaching hands of another undead.

One of the life guard men shouts, hands grabbing at his neck. He staggers and almost falls before his companion grabs the creature by the hair, yanking it back and driving a knife into the ruin of the undead’s face.

“You…” Hamilton growls as they turn. “You damn… I could kill you… myself.”

“I know,” Laurens says.

Ahead he sees them now, Walker pulling North up from the snow. Behind them, one of the living men screams as an undead drags him down into the snow, blood flowing from his neck.

“Harry!” North shouts but it is far too late.

The third man with them fires his pistol, not at the dead creature but at their companion, putting the screaming man quickly out of his misery.

“Run!” Hamilton shouts at them. “Do not stop!”

The three remaining men are close now, almost within reach. Laurens sees more dead behind them, more than Laurens first saw.

“God…” Hamilton gasps.

“Keep moving, we are here now!” Laurens shouts. 

Then Laurens slams into Walker. Walker hugs Laurens tight for a moment, his eyes wild. “They came… we… we tried, but the doors…”

“Not now!” Laurens snaps, pulling back. “Keep moving.” He turns Walker around and pushes him behind himself. “Go, go.”

North gasps high. “Laurens… they…. Peter, oh god, they tore him apart!”

“Du Ponceau?” Hamilton says then he shakes his head. Pierre du Ponceau is – was – the Baron’s secretary. “Come, come!” 

Hamilton grabs North’s arm and then the arm of the third man with them, a Captain who only breathes hard and says nothing. Hamilton turns and pushes both of them back after Walker toward their headquarters.

“Run, run!” Hamilton says. “Tilghman, lead them back!”

Tilghman does not respond. Laurens looks over his shoulder, hears shouts. He sees at least five of the undead setting upon Tilghman and the life guard. Tilghman jumps back from one creature drawing his pistol. One of the life guard stabs his sword into the mouth of an undead as it reaches for Walker.

“Hurry!” Laurens shouts. 

Laurens turns back then to the monsters which chased their compatriots. He stops moving as he sees a tall, familiar man shambling close through the snow. It seems like the wind follows him, a spray of snow and ice swirling around him, four other undead in his wake. His hat remains on his head, his sword at his hip but blood coats the white of his uniform, dripping off his buttons. He seems to walk faster than the others, as if he remembers Laurens and makes directly for him. Laurens thinks he hears the man’s voice, remembers his halting attempts at English and his far faster German. The now risen dead figure of Baron von Stueben marches toward Laurens, but an arm’s length away. 

Laurens never thought the Baron could fall, never thought the Baron who tried to make them into a real army could be drawn down by their scourge too. He never imagined the Baron could look this terrible – a chunk of his cheek gone, bone exposed, tears in his uniform, his waistcoat shredded, clear bites of flesh torn from his legs and neck – blood everywhere, absolutely everywhere, even on his outstretched hand as it suddenly grabs Laurens around the throat.

“Baron…” Laurens gasps as he stares up into dead glassy eyes, blood shot and nothing there, nothing left.

The Baron’s mouth gapes, teeth and cold air and Laurens thinks he should have run, he should have moved, he should raise his sword now.

Then a shot hits the Baron’s head with a crunch, thick blood hitting Laurens’ face. The Baron’s dead hand falls away from Laurens’ neck and the Baron lands in the snow, still and truly dead once more. Laurens turns quickly to see Hamilton with his pistol held out straight and a half-mad expression on his face.

“Not now,” Hamilton says, “I will not lose you now.”

“Hamilton…”

Hamilton grabs Laurens’ lapel and pulls him around again, dragging them both away from the grasping hands and groaning sounds of the undead still advancing. “Run!” Hamilton snaps.

Laurens awakens from his trance once more and races alongside Hamilton. Another man tries to grab for them but Laurens breaks a fissure into the dead man’s face with his sword. Ahead of them, he sees the other men moving fast. 

North shoots a creature that grabs for Walker with a scream of rage. Laurens thinks of Hamilton coming for him – North bears the same intimate relationship with Walker as Laurens does with Hamilton. Laurens thinks about how the pair of them managed to make it this far, how many times they may have screamed at the other near lost. He thinks about himself and Hamilton trying to escape across the snow with General Washington following them, as dead as the Baron. Laurens gasps hard and focuses, focuses on the rescue now and making it back inside the walls.

“Come on!” he hears carried across the wind.

Laurens sees Meade and Harrison at the gate of the fortification, the two of them waving in encouragement. They are so close now. Two undead come from the left, one grabbing at Tilghman and another at Walker. Laurens speeds up and pulls the creature off Walker who nearly falls with the attack. Laurens throws the undead back, its fingers tearing buttons off his lapel. It grabs for Laurens again, pulling at his arm. Laurens tries to keep moving, to yank his arm free. He twists his other arm around until he gets his sword under the creature’s chin – he had blue eyes in life – then Laurens drives his sword upward. The thing makes a gurgling noise and falls limp. Laurens stumbles backward as he yanks his sword free once more.

Someone shouts ahead of him. Hamilton cries, “go, go.” Tilghman’s voice screams once and another man yells with him. “Shit!” North shouts and another gunshot goes off. They cannot have any ready shot left. Hamilton barks something and Laurens sees him swing out his sword wildly at two undead too close again. Then Laurens remembers his own gun. He pulls it forth just as they reach the wall. He feels Hamilton’s hand on his sword arm, pulling, pulling, all of them almost inside. One of the life guard men falls, an undead grabbing him by the neck as it sinks its teeth into the man’s arm, blood flowing forth. Laurens aims and shots the life guardsman in the head so both fall back into the snow.

Then the gate slams closed in Laurens’ face. Those of them left all stand inside the walls panting for breath. Several guards come with fixed bayonets and stab at the undead that try to force themselves against the walls.

“Idiot!” Hamilton snaps at Laurens. “You damn idiot!”

“I would not leave them!” Laurens snaps back at him.

“We left two in the snow!”

“It would have been four!”

“But to run out there,” Hamilton hisses. “Alone? What did you think to do?”

“Stop!” Harrison snaps then lowers his voice. “It is done, and I will not debate the right or wrong.” He points at the house. “Inside, learn what they know.” Harrison pushes Laurens and Hamilton in the back, marching with them. “I will tell His Excellency.”

The rescued and rescuers all walk into the house, the adrenaline falling and the cold making them shiver. They tromp back into the house to find Mrs. Washington and Mrs. Greene waiting with cups of hot tea, handing them to the three men who made the arduous journey here. 

Mrs. Washington hands another to Laurens with a grim look on your face. “He spoke once of your rashness but I suppose I could not have imagined how far such extended.”

Laurens stares back at her, unable to answer. She turns away again, a look on her face much like a mother, and takes another cup from a servant’s tray to give to Tilghman.

“Come,” Hamilton says to Laurens, gripping his arm. “We should sit.”

They walk into the aide office. Walker and North sit instead now at the one table, Fitzgerald standing near them as he puts his own coat over North’s shoulders.

“In the night,” North says. “We awoke to the sound of breaking wood. A larger number of them, I cannot say how many, but the doors broke under their weight.”

“We did not have time to create such fortifications as yours,” Walker interjects, “no wall but the house’s.”

“I think they were Maxwell’s brigade, I recognized some faces in the rush… but we could not fight them back. Once inside it was like a swarm, and we in our beds, only two on guard. We… we had little chance.” North makes a sound like a sob and he hunches over his cup. “We only…. we only escaped…”

“We only escaped because of the Baron,” Walker says, his voice stark and blank as if his emotions fled with the horror. “The Baron pushed pistols in our hands and hurried us out the side door. He stood in the way, told us we must make here to tell you… He faced half a dozen for us, to go back for Peter…” North looks up toward Laurens and Hamilton. “Even though he knew…”

“He bought us time.” North’s face contorts then he peeks up from the untouched tea in his hand. “You did not… did you… did you see him behind us?”

Walker swallows hard and looks down again, his breath uneven.

“No,” Laurens lies. “We did not see him.”

“Do you know of any of the other Generals?” Fitzgerald asks. “We had word from Knox this morning. General Wayne and Greene are here. What of the other brigades? Do any still stand?”

“Have you heard anything from beyond the Valley?” Tilghman asks as he limps into the room, sitting heavily at the opposite table, his teacup clinking in his hand. “Perhaps even any of our other forces north or south, do they fight the same undead as we?”

North and Walker only stare up helplessly, as if the question of anything beyond the ring of undead around their encampment is beyond such comprehension now.

After a pause, Walker says, “No, nothing but that we think Maxwell fallen.”

“Lafayette!” North says abruptly. “We had word four days past. His headquarters still remain and at least thirty men or more with him.”

Someone shifts sharply near the door and Laurens just catches Harrison turning out of the doorway, clearly heading to General Washington’s office.

“Still…” Meade says quietly, standing nearer Tilghman now. “Four days.”

Laurens nods. “When a night can lead to three men remaining.”

North makes a small noise and stares resolutely at the fire.

“But there is a chance,” Hamilton says. “Lafayette may live as well as his men with him. We may rally.”

“Because of one Frenchman?” Fitzgerald remarks, his tone dark.

“Because we need some hope!” Hamilton snaps.

Suddenly Tilghman’s teacup shatters on the floor. The men in the room all start in surprise. Meade leans over Tilghman as the man hunches over.

“Tilghman? Are you well?”

Tilghman shakes his head, opens his mouth as if to speak then closes it again. He looks up at them once sharply. His eyes look strange, paler somehow. He turns his head and stares at Meade. He reaches out his hand. “I feel…”

Then Tilghman’s head knocks backward and he abruptly falls from the chair sending shards of his cup skittering around their feet. 

“Good God!” Walker snaps as he and North jolt up to standing and back away toward the wall.

“Tench!” Meade cries just as Fitzgerald says, “Tilghman, oh Lord.”

The pair of them crouch down beside Tilghman, patting his cheek and touching his brow.

“He cannot be…” Hamilton says.

“I did not see him bitten,” Laurens says low.

Hamilton shakes his head. “We were all set upon, running quickly.”

“But so fast, he could merely be overcome from the exertion.”

“You think that –”

Before Hamilton may say more, however, Tilghman jerks up from the floor. His hands fly up and grasp Fitzgerald’s head. Tilghman twists, his legs barely following, unnatural and wrong, and he sinks his teeth with a growl into Fitzgerald’s upper arm. Fitzgerald screams, lashing out with fists. Tilghman’s legs hit the table sending a chair sliding, nearly knocking Meade off his feet. Hamilton jumps back to avoid Fitzgerald’s waving arms and Laurens’ tries to grab him; but Tilghman tears a chunk of Fitzgerald’s shirt and flesh away so Fitzgerald falls backward again, hitting Walker’s knees. 

“Grab him!” Hamilton shouts to Walker of Fitzgerald. “Pull him back!”

“A gun!” Laurens cries. “A knife, anything, now!”

They all try to back away as the undead Tilghman growls and twists around onto its knees, grasping out in all directions for what it deems food of its fellow aides-de-camp. It grabs Laurens’ ankles so he stumbles, hits the edge of the table.

“Move!” Hamilton shouts. “Get out, out!”

Laurens falls down suddenly as Tilghman pulls his leg, off balance with too many men and furniture and confusion in too small a space. Tilghman crawls up Laurens’ body, its teeth bared and growling like any mindless animal. Suddenly Meade grabs Tilghman’s shoulders, hauling the thing back and holding it fast against his chest.

“Help!” Walker says as he holds a handkerchief against Fitzgerald’s bleeding wound. “Please!”

“Kill it!” North screams.

“Here!” Hamilton says, reaching around fallen chairs to Laurens to thrust a dagger into Laurens’ hands. “Now!”

Meade’s face is stricken as he holds Tilghman’s thrashing form fast, tears leaking from his eyes. Laurens stares at Tilghman’s face, only moments ago talking with them, holding his tea as any day in the office. 

Meade gasps hard. “Just do it!” And he scrunches up his eyes.

Laurens heaves himself up onto his knees, grips Tilghman’s hair. “I am sorry my friend.” Then he plunges the knife swift and sharp through Tilghman’s temple.

The body stops moving, arms falling down and slack over Meade, only a small amount of blood dripping from the wound. Laurens leans back on his haunches and drops the knife onto the floor. After a silent pause, Laurens hears the voice of General Washington and Harrison out in the hall behind him. 

“… check when he returned?”

“So quickly… another loss as this…”

“I will not accept…”

Laurens stares at Tilghman as Meade shifts around out from under him. His face is almost calm but for the blood around his mouth, blood that is not his own. Meade’s hand strays gently over Tilghman’s uniform, smoothing out his lapels and moving Tilghman’s arms around to a more natural state by his sides. Laurens sees then a stain of blood high on Tilghman’s hip shaped much like a bit mark, covered before by his uniform. Tilghman may not have even realized in the rush back that he was bitten.

“What of Fitzgerald?” Laurens looks up at Hamilton who spoke so softly perhaps only Laurens could hear. Both their eyes shift to where Walker still sits with Fitzgerald, Fitzgerald wincing and holding his hand over Walker’s on his arm. “If Tilghman turned so fast…”

“No,” Laurens hisses, “we cannot.”

Meade sniffs hard, his hand brushing strands of Tilghman’s hair back into place. “Tench…”

“We have to,” Hamilton hisses.

Laurens stands up, close to Hamilton. “Perhaps there is a way, if we bandaged –”

“You know that is not the case! It has been the same with every person bit.”

“Hamilton…”

“I hear you!” Fitzgerald snaps as he struggles to his feet. Walker and North both stare at him, edging slightly away. “There is no choice.” Fitzgerald drops his hand from the wound. “I know.”

Laurens holds up a hand. “Fitzgerald…” 

“He is right,” North says softly.

“I did not ask you!” Laurens snaps.

“Laurens,” Hamilton grips his arm. “You cannot fix this now.”

“But to lose Tilghman and…” Meade looks up at Fitzgerald, tears down his face now. “John, no… not…”

Fitzgerald gives Meade a look but only shakes his head. He looks back to Laurens and Hamilton standing before him. “I would not turn into one of those. I would die a man, please.”

Laurens breathes in sharply. “There could be time.”

“Not enough, not to test this,” Fitzgerald says. “You have to, one of you has to.”

Hamilton turns out into the hall behind Laurens. Laurens keeps watching Fitzgerald, his jaw tight. Laurens steps forward and grips his hand. “Fitzgerald, I am sorry. I ran out and they followed me, if I had not…”

“Stop,” Fitzgerald says, pulling his hand away from Laurens. “Enough. Apologies are nothing now, just…” Fitzgerald blows out a breath and winces. He brings up his hand toward his arm but drops it again without touching it.

“Here,” Hamilton says coming in once more with a pistol in hand.

“You cannot do so in here,” Meade says, still crouched near Tilghman. “It is not…”

“And where else?” Hamilton snaps. “There is blood stained here now, there is blood and death all around us!” Laurens sees Hamilton’s hand shaking. “Should I take our friend outside in the cold to die?”

“Hamilton, stop,” Walker says palliatively.

Hamilton stands before Fitzgerald with the pistol half up yet he hesitates. Then he looks at Laurens. “I… I do not…”

“I know,” Laurens says taking the pistol from Hamilton. He looks at Fitzgerald who stares resolutely back. Laurens cannot help but see a person, his friend, a real man before him. “Fitzgerald…”

“Just do it.”

“Fitzgerald, I…”

“Give it to me.”

Laurens turns sharply to General Washington standing right behind him now. Laurens stares then places the pistol into the General’s waiting hand.

“Out,” General Washington says. “Everyone.”

Walker and North hurry quickly around the General out into the hall. Hamilton shoots a look at Laurens then steps back and away. Laurens glances down at Meade but the General touches Laurens’ shoulder. Laurens nods and turns away following the others back into the hall. 

“Meade,” The General says softly. Meade does not move for several seconds, still staring down at Tilghman. Then he stands up jerkily and marches around the General.

All the aides-de-camp, Walker, North and several more soldiers stand crammed into the hall watching. They should leave perhaps, give Fitzgerald his end in private, but a stronger feeling stays between them all somehow, how they cannot leave either man in that office alone to bear this.

General Washington nods once, the sound of the pistol cocking. He looks at Fitzgerald and says, “I thank you for your service to our country, Lieutenant Colonel. You are a brave and honorable man. It was an honor to serve with you.”

“Thank you, sir,” Fitzgerald whispers, almost too soft to hear.

Then the General raises his arm, points and fires one shot. Laurens hears Fitzgerald hit the floor with a thump, but Laurens' eyes have fallen closed. Hamilton’s hand fists tight around his and not a man around them speaks.

When Laurens opens his eyes again, General Washington faces the assembled party. “This is enough,” he says. “I will not lose more men bit by bit. We cannot only survive here. We must fight, be it win or die. We will seek out every other General and his house, find what strength is left among our army and then we shall retake Valley Forge or we shall retreat from this place. We wait no longer, we fight.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I was supposed to be writing something for 'The War' and then I got some new music and the Halloween spirit set in and this happened. Don't worry, I am not abandoning the 'The War,' just taking a short side trip! Happy Halloween!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Laurens and Hamilton trek across the dangers of Valley Forge to retrieve General Knox and the Marquis de Lafayette.

“We shall divide up the Valley,” General Washington says to the assembled aides-de-camp and Generals the following morning. “In the north east lies General Huntington’s headquarters in need of investigation. We know Varnum’s fallen. However, troop could remain from their brigades as well as Generals McIntosh and Sullivan.”

His Excellency looks up at General Greene. “You will take men and search the area, find if General Huntington lives.”

“Sir,” Greene says, staring down now at the map of Valley Forge on the table they all circle around.

“General Wayne.” He looks up at His Excellency. “You will lead a larger detachment to the entrenchments in the south east. Find the status of Weedon’s headquarters as well as the commissary headquarters, as some may have made use of it as a strong hold. A largest number of brigades are there: Scott, Poor, Glover, Learned, Patterson, Weedon, and, of course, your own, General.”

“Will that not also be the most populated area of our encampment of undead, your Excellency?” Wayne asks, though his voice does not bear any hesitancy at such an assignment.

“Yes,” General Washington replies then his mouth quirks. “But Colonel Harrison has had an idea to this.”

Harrison steps forward. “Once Greene and his men have finished their search in the north, we will create a diversion. The dead are drawn to the living not just by our presence or warmth, but by sound.” Harrison points to the Schuylkill River on the far east edge. “Greene’s men will cross the river and meet with Captain Gibbs and half of the Life Guard remaining. All the drums and fife, any sound possible, will be made to draw the undead up and away from the main valley. We may corral them as well as able to the north east with the river as a barrier.”

Murmurs rise among the assembled men. Laurens and Hamilton glance at each other, eyebrows raised in hopeful surprise.

“You will start your approach south then,” General Washington says to Wayne. “With luck there may be less undead in your way.”

Lastly, General Washington turns to Laurens and Hamilton. “Lieutenant Colonels, you will lead a small party of yourselves and two others to retrieve General Knox and to make for General Lafayette.” His Excellency’s demeanor shifts for a moment – real concern instead of just the commander in chief. “Find out if the Marquis lives, and if so, bring him back.” The General glances away again to the map. “And any remaining men with him.”

“Yes, sir,” Laurens and Hamilton say together at once.

General Washington looks up at the whole assembled party then clasps his hands behind his back. “I have no illusions this may be a failing fight and that even this excursion to try and rescue our own men may fail. This may be our last battlefield, but we must act as there is no other to come for us. We are the army and we cannot wait behind walls while our country is overtaken by unholy wraiths.”

Silence stretches for several breaths among then, each man watching His Excellency, each man thinking of the likelihood of his own death at the hands of a dead friend.

General Washington drops his arms to his sides again. “I give you leave to choose your men and your path to your respective destinations. General Greene and Captain Gibbs, you shall leave first and then Wayne once the diversion begins.” The General looks to Hamilton and Laurens. “Leave as soon as you are able.” He looks back to the group. “And keep your parties small. I will allow you all two days and if you are not returned by then, those of us left will leave for Philadelphia.”

“Philadelphia?” Meade says, a hollow sound to his voice.

General Washington nods, Wayne and Greene with grim expressions on their faces. “If we here should prove to be the only men left then we would have no choice.” The General’s face shifts into something grimmer. “Regardless, the British may have begun this but I suspect we will need their force to finish it.”

Laurens opens his mouth to object – to fight alongside such monsters as began this? But Hamilton grips his wrist quickly and Laurens shuts his mouth again.

“Now we work to find our men. Clear?”

The room responds with, “Yes, sir – Yes, Your Excellency.”

The General nods once more. “Dismissed.”

Wayne and Harrison step closer to the General, talking low and over each other. Greene rushes out first, grabbing Wayne’s aide as he goes already giving orders to soldiers waiting in the hall. Laurens and Hamilton look at each other as they leave the General’s office and turn quickly into the aide-de-camp office. Laurens pauses, staring at the faint stain on the floor. Then he turns back to Hamilton.

“Knox and Lafayette then.”

“Yes,” Hamilton says. “Two other men with us as the General said, smaller should be better.”

“Yes, we might evade notice with more ease this way.”

Hamilton pulls another of their maps of the camp from one of the shelves and unrolls it on the table nearer the wall, further from the spot on the floor. “Straight down Valley Road.”

Laurens nods. “We should have the creek on our one side then to help with defense.”

“We will be near Maxwell’s brigade.”

“It is not certain to be fallen,” Laurens says looking up at Hamilton. “Walker only supposed.”

“And Woodford's nearer Knox’s headquarters.”

Laurens shakes his head this time. “We have no guarantee where any of the undead may wander regardless of the state of brigades. There is nothing for it but to march and see.”

Hamilton rolls up the map. “We should look for volunteers first for the mission.”

“I will.”

Hamilton and Laurens look up to see Meade standing in the door. They glance quickly at each other then back to Meade.

“We thought more an enlisted man,” Hamilton explains, “not someone of rank.”

“You said a volunteer. How many do you think likely to do so?” Meade counters. “And I have.”

“Men will volunteer,” Laurens says. “I am certain enough to feel idle and frustrated by such inaction as these weeks have left us with.”

“Fine then,” Meade replies quickly, “find your two enlisted men but I will accompany you as well.”

“Four is enough,” Laurens tries, worried at the expression on Meade’s face.

“Why should you say no to another man?” Meade insists. “I have offered. I am willing.”

Hamilton shakes his head. “Meade, we cannot ask you to do so and should the General need you –”

“I am not asking!” Meade interrupts sharply. “I am telling.”

“Meade…” Hamilton hisses, at Meade’s fervor or volume Laurens cannot tell.

Meade steps into the room closer to the two of them. “I may not understand an intimate friendship such as between you two.” Laurens stiffens and does not look at Hamilton. “But Til…” Meade breathes in sharply. “Tilghman was as close – as dear a friend as I have here.”

“He was dear to all of us,” Hamilton replies softly. “And Fitzgerald.”

“And Tench is dead!” Meade snaps again, his voice raw. “He was made one of those.” Meade points at the window. “I am supposed to bear this? No. I will not stand here and wait one more minute. I must do something!”

Laurens nods. “I understand.” He understands that Meade wants a chance to plunge his sword into something, into the only thing he can.

“I am coming with you,” Meade says again.

Neither Laurens nor Hamilton object this time.

 

Greene and his men leave within the hour, six in total and each armed with bayonets, dagger and sword along with their rifles. Indeed, the steel should prove more useful than the shot.

“It may be fortunate I cannot play,” Gibbs says to Laurens as he and the Life Guard gather all manner of objects for the intent of causing noise. He holds up the fife. “Better a loud awful noise, yes?”

Laurens smiles at him. “Just blow hard across the opening, not into it.”

Gibbs raises his eyebrows. “I have seen a march before.”

“Yet this does not mean you play.”

“And I said as much.” He examines the fife in some consideration then glances up at Laurens again. “Perhaps I should choose a drum instead.”

“Or simply smash some bottles,” Hamilton says handing a large empty jug to Gibbs.

Gibbs makes a nonplussed face then nods. He puts the jug to his lips and blows, a noise much like a foghorn issuing forth. He looks at Laurens again and grins. “Perhaps I do play.”

Laurens only shakes his head as Gibbs chuckles and walks around the pair of them, heading to the back door. “Guards!” He snaps. “With me.”

Laurens turns to Hamilton who shakes his head too as he watches the Life Guards follow Gibbs out the back. He glances at Laurens.

Laurens gestures toward the front door with his chin. “Ready?”

Hamilton purses his lips. “Ready for action perhaps but I think no man ever ready to face the risen dead.”

“Perhaps not,” Laurens says as he walks over to the cache of weapons arranged hanging or leaning along the wall across from the aide office. “But I will be glad to see more living faces of our army. I cannot believe them all lost.”

“Nor I.” Hamilton picks up a pistol and powder bag, a short sword already on his belt in addition to his officer’s sword. “Knox wrote us so recently and I pray a day still sees their survival.”

Laurens buckles his baldric and sword across his chest, choosing a short knife to strap around his opposite thigh. He glances up at Hamilton as he tightens the knife in place. “And Lafayette?”

Hamilton’s eyes tick down to Laurens and his hands tighten around the pistol in his hand. “I do not know how I should bear such a sight as his headquarters in ruin, or he himself…” Hamilton cuts off his thought with a sigh. “He will live. We will bring him back.”

Laurens stands up straight again, heavier with weapons. “We will.”

“Laurens, Hamilton.” The two men turn to Meade just stepping off the stairs. He wears a baldric with sword across his chest. In his hand, he carries a saber and an ax. He holds out the ax. “Ready?”

Hamilton looks at the axe incredulously. Laurens, however, reaches out and takes the ax. He thinks of a hessian who came for him at Brandywine, ax in hand and a scream as he swung. Laurens shoves the axe into the belt around his hips. Hamilton gives him a look but says nothing.

“I say so now,” Laurens replies. 

The three aides-de-camp turn and exit the house. Outside two men wait for them beside all their packs, a Private Ballard and Corporal White. 

“Gentleman,” Hamilton says as he stops at the base of the stairs, Meade and Laurens flanking him on either side. “The aim of our mission is to avoid unnecessary combat and to pass unnoticed. We are to find General Knox and those with him and then on to General Lafayette for the same. Are you armed and ready?”

“Yes, sir,” the two men say at once.

Hamilton nods and the five men hoist their packs onto their backs. Hamilton grins and glances sidelong at Laurens. “Then let us reclaim our army.”

The five men leave via the front gate while Wayne’s detachment draws the attention of their ring of undead toward the rear of the fortifications. They only need dispatch one slower, dead creature with a slash of Meade’s sword due to the former soul missing a foot. 

They follow Valley Road south away from General Washington’s headquarters. The snow still covers the ground up to their ankles and they cannot avoid some noise from the simple crunch of snow. However, a wind blows which covers much of their sound and fortunately sends any scent they may carry toward Valley Forge Creek and not the cleared land of their encampment. A walk from General Washington’s Headquarters to General Knox’s would take one man only a little more than half an hour in fine conditions. Their conditions are not fine nor well.

The five keep as brisk a pace as they may, Hamilton in the lead and Meade at the rear. Ballard and White keep to the encampment side east and Laurens to the creek on the west so they have eyes on all edges of their progress. As expected, the large mass of the dead appears to be mostly nearer the inner areas of their camp, likely the brigades and the burial ground. Valley Road, where they travel, lies on the farthest west side of the camp so they encounter only smaller pockets and individual threats.

“Ahead,” Hamilton calls quietly as he moves forward, knees bent to swiftly stab his knife into one undead in their path.

Ballard calls, “three inside,” as he and White break away to handle three dead who have begun to shamble too close toward their party.

“Are we followed, Meade?” Hamilton asks.

“None close enough for our care,” Meade replies

Laurens watches the icy edge of the creek carefully as they march. He sees blood on the snow every so often as they walk. He cannot tell it to be fresh or days past. It has not snowed for at least two days. The creek appears half iced over, though there are pockets of water flowing without ice. A few breaks clearly resulted from a body falling through, be it human or dead it is impossible to say. Laurens sees at least one undead stuck in the ice, sluggishly grasping at the snow as if to pull itself out. It makes Laurens shiver beyond the freezing temperatures around them.

“Laurens?”

Laurens glances up their line at Hamilton looking back at him over his shoulder. Laurens shakes his head quickly. Any undead which moved as far as the creek either turned back or fell into the water to be trapped under the ice.

“It is quiet,” Meade says.

“Except for our feet,” Ballard interjects with some dark tone. 

“You mean we should be better heard by… them?” White whispers toward Meade.

“I mean, there are no birds,” Meade replies.

Laurens cocks his head as they walk. Winter is certainly not the most active time in nature, no bugs and many animals in sleep or gone for warmer quarters. Yet Meade is right; Laurens sees not a single bird in the trees nor hears any song or call in the air. He hears only the sounds of their own feet, the movement of the creek.

“The birds know to leave a place that is damned,” Meade says.

Laurens thinks how only yesterday morning Meade joked and laughed and attempted to raise all their spirits. He wishes fervently that they could bring this Meade back.

“But they left together,” Hamilton says in response to Meade and drawing Laurens’ eye. “We aim the same now.”

At one point, some half way through their trek, they are forced to retreat into a safer patch of wood between the creek and their road when a group of at least twenty undead appear from the west. The men hide themselves behind trees, waiting for the creatures to pass. If they are lucky any smell or sign of them may go undetected.

“We are five men,” Meade hisses with his sword held tight in hand. “We may well remove the threat.”

“It is a risk we need not take,” Hamilton whispers back.

“You should prefer to leave them for another more unsuspecting and less well armed?”

“Do not discount my intentions, Meade, you know them not so.”

“Are we not the army?” Meade say too loud as the line of undead walk closer. “Should this not be our task now?”

“We have a larger task.”

“Lower your voices,” Laurens hisses back, he nearest the road. 

One undead turns toward Laurens at his words. It groans low as it steps in his direction, outstretched hands black from frost bite. Its uniform hangs to near falling off its shoulders but its legs are sound and quick.

“Damn,” Laurens hisses. One shall quickly draw more. 

Laurens twists out from behind the tree and rushes toward the creature, quiet as he may in the lighter snow here. He pulls the axe from his belt, swings it high and around to slam into the side of the undead’s head just as its hands touch Laurens' chest. It falls, chunks of flesh flinging off Laurens' ax as he turns once more back to their cover. He hears Hamilton and Meade arguing quiet and fast as he nears.

“– and Laurens dispatched it quickly.”

“One is enough, more is a swarm!”

“And we are not helpless!”

“It is a risk!”

“Here,” Ballard says suddenly.

Ballard shifts his pack around, pulls something out of it then runs from behind their trees. They all watch as he stops at the road and flings whatever is in his hand over the heads of the undead. It arcs high and lands with a splat, rolling twice down the hill and leaving a red line. It was meat, some kind of bloody meat. Ballard runs back once more as a few of the undead follow the drop of Ballard's throw. The others begin to take notice and shamble with them toward the waiting meal.

“And now we should make our escape, yes?” Ballard says as he stops before them.

Laurens grins, Meade looking more stunned and White unsurprised. 

Hamilton nods once. “Good man.”

The five of them hurry on in the direction of their mission, not turning back for a full five minutes on their way.

They continue in silence listening to the stillness made more oppressive from the muffling snow. They pass a broken wagon, blood on the spokes of one wheel and no bodies inside. White checks it quickly for any supplies but it is picked clean. Their formation grows tighter as they near their objective until Laurens and Hamilton walk side by side with White and Ballard just behind and Meade after. 

A sound becomes apparent gradually, a low tone at first unnoticed, as if something merely in the background. It rises slow and steady like a hum, like anticipation. Soon they glance at each other, questioning if the other men hear. 

Laurens speaks first what they all know. “The undead, a mass of them. We must be close.”

General Knox's headquarters lies down its own lane after a break in the camp roads. The line of the lane, one side eventually flanked by a low stone wall, remains visible despite the snow from old wagon lines and the indentation of many feet. The sound they hear, the low moan and groan and movement of packed bodies, reveals its source down this lane.

“Sixty or seventy,” White says as he creeps back up next to their party higher up on the hill looking down through trees.

“Not a hundred though,” Laurens says. “There is that.”

Hamilton gives him a withering look. It makes Laurens smile for a brief moment.

“Fourteen each,” Meade says as he looks at Hamilton. “And this risk we must take.”

Knox's house is a long white building, two stories high and twice as large as General Washington's. As they move carefully closer, they see some fortifications around the house, stone and wood combined in a hodgepodge that is not as strong as it should be. Spots which failed can be seen, one using stacked bodies of the dead speared on sticks to patch it. It should be horrific, enough to turn any man back, but they remain. A few windows of the house are broken and blocked up with the wood of tables and barrels. The fortifications around the house are tighter than at their own headquarters, maybe only three yards from the house itself and Laurens sees much of it beginning to lean. Knox was not alarmist in his fear that they should not hold out much longer.

“We need to remove the threat first,” Hamilton says. “It should prove impossible to get any large group free through those undead.”

“Do not say a frontal assault,” Laurens interrupts Meade as he opens his mouth.

“Why do you think I would say so?”

“You are too eager,” Laurens hisses.

Meade frowns darkly. “No better than you who ran from our house alone forcing men to follow you?”

Laurens raises his eyebrows high and his mouth drops open at Meade's clear implication. 

“We face the now,” Hamilton snaps giving each man a pointed look, “And we all mourn lost friends.”

Meade and Laurens glare at each other. Laurens wants to shout at Meade, to shake him, to apologize until he turns hoarse, to bring both Tilghman and Fitzgerald back alive and real – not undead.

“Now we need a plan,” Hamilton says.

“We should know if they ring the whole house,” Meade says, ending his standoff with Laurens. “Could there be an access point we do not know?”

Ballard stands up straighter from where they crouch near some trees and takes off wide around the left side of the house.

“This does not change the need for an exit,” Laurens counters as Ballard disappears. “Even should we get inside we must all get out again and are likely to be noticed in either event.”

“And how many are inside?” White says, craning his neck as if he could see at their distance.

Laurens frowns and glances around the area. The undead all cluster around the walls, moaning and the wood creaking. The largest grouping appears to be toward the front entrance, an overturned wagon in the center where a gate was once attempted. Laurens wonders how many days Knox and his men have remained now trapped inside. Some trees cluster around the edges of the house surroundings, not enough for proper cover. He looks behind him and sees two cabins, possibly guard cabins or some of Knox’s officers. Laurens looks back at the slowly writhing mass of creatures at the fortifications. He wonders why Knox did not make use of the wood from the cabins. Perhaps they did not get the chance.

Suddenly Laurens grins. “But we could make use of them now.”

Hamilton turns his head to Laurens. “Make use of what?”

Ballard appears again beside them, panting and kicking up snow as he skids to a stop. “Not as many but some more around the back, yes. Part of their wall is broken down in one spot, so a few dead are right against the house.”

“No time to waste then,” Hamilton says grimly.

Laurens grips Hamilton’s arm. “I have an idea.”

 

Laurens and Meade stand at the peak of the ridge looking down at Knox’s headquarters. The smell of fire comes across the wind from behind them. They walk through the snow with no attempt at subtlety until they stop approximately twenty feet from the crowd of undead soldiers and civilians. Laurens glances at Meade, Meade’s sword out in one hand and his dagger in the other. Laurens fists his own hand around his axe and knife. A few of the creatures turn at the fresh sound or scent but most do not notice them yet.

Laurens purses his lips and begins to whistle, high and loud. The sound quickly forms into a familiar tune. It is Yankee Doodle Dandy.

The undead all begin to shift and move, turning away from the resisting wood to the insistent and alive sound behind them. The mass moves then like a flock of birds, turning together and deciding to shamble up the hill. Laurens and Meade walk backward as the undead begin to make for them. Laurens keeps on whistling, Meade joining him, their pitches flat but continuous. The dead move quicker, closing the gap so Laurens and Meade finally turn and start to run up the hill.

“Yankee doodle keep it up!” Laurens sing-shouts as the two of them run, the two cabins with smoke issuing from their chimney’s ahead of them.

“Yankee doodle dandy!” Meade echoes.

One undead gets close enough to grab at Laurens’ one arm so he swings the ax in his other hand around to slash at the creature’s face, dropping it to the snow.

“Mind the music…” Laurens keeps singing as he pants, the huts close now.

“And the step!” Meade joins him as he slashes toward the creatures on his heels.

Then pair of them shout together just barely on a tune, “And with the girls be handy!”

Laurens jumps into the hut, slamming the door closed behind him. He knocks the long table in the middle of the space down toward the door as a preliminary defense. He puts his ax back into his belt and knife in the holster on his thigh. Then he runs to the fire, well stoked and high now, and pulls out one burning log. Then he moves around and props the table up long ways in front of him like a shield with his back to the one small window of the hut. Most huts at Valley Forge have no windows but, as it appears this hut was meant for defense of Knox’s headquarters, this one fortuitously does.

A second after Laurens secures his position, the door to the hut breaks open. The undead begin to swarm inside, reaching for him and filling the space. Laurens plants his feet and holds the wood table fast in front of him against the tide. The creatures groan and shuffle, teeth gnashing as they come closer and closer, more pushing through the door to get to the flesh they wish to tear and eat.

“Yankee doodle….” Laurens sings again off key then returns to whistling.

He uses the fire in his one hand to keep the undead just far enough way, not quite able to get their teeth on him. He counts the bodies inside the hut, ten, twelve, a few more. The weight on the table pushes him, his elbow bent and his back nearly against the wall.

“Now!” Laurens shouts toward the window and the door behind the tide of undead slams shut.

Laurens shoves the end of his burning log into the face of one undead. The former man catches fire, his lanky hair igniting at once and spreading to his hat. Laurens lights the uniform of another, the cracked skin on the hand of one more then he shoves the table on top of half a dozen of the creatures, throwing the log on top of it so the table begins to burn too. Laurens turns and grabs the edge of the window. The space is small, but he tested it earlier to know he may fit through. Laurens hoists himself up, twisting his shoulders to manage through the gap. He feels hands grabbing at his boots and his hips. For one sickening moment he thinks they may actually pull him back inside. Then Laurens kicks out hard, feels like a horse, until he hears a crunch. His weight tips forward and Laurens spills out the window into the snow, his hat rolling away.

Laurens flips onto his back, grapping his hat and pulling his ax out once more at the ready. Smoke begins to issue from the window and Laurens feels the heat from the spreading fire.

“Stand, Laurens!” 

Laurens turns his head at the sound of Hamilton’s voice. He jumps up just in time to swing his ax up from down low and catch under the chin of a dead Captain with its mouth stretched wide. The creature spins with the blow, its jaw bone cracking and breaking free. Something knocks into Laurens’ back and he turns to strike a blow.

“It is I!” Meade says quickly, blocking Laurens' arm. “Only I!”

They hurry then around the burning huts, Meade’s matching Laurens’ with the rising smoke.

“How many?” Laurens asks Meade as they move forward toward the remaining undead.

“It’d say fifteen at least, yours?”

“A dozen or more.”

Then they both unsheathe their swords. On the snowy lawn between the cabins and Knox’s house are the remaining undead. Ballard works from the left, White from the right and Hamilton at the rear nearest the house. The three men move quickly and methodically, stabbing at the heads of the undead as they push them into a box. Laurens and Meade join in at the last edge, a weapon in each hand. The cold certainly makes the creatures slower which works to the soldiers’ advantage. With almost thirty taken care of in the burning huts, long planks of wood used to secure the doors shut, far less remain for them to dispatch. 

Ballard stumbles at one point, an undead pushing him down but he stabs up with his bayonet and kicks its feet to bring his quarry down to his level in the snow. Hamilton moves so quickly he kills five of the creatures in less than a minute, striking with his short sword as if planting seeds in a field. Laurens chops two more with his ax and strikes so hard in a clean sweep with his sword that he takes the head off an eyeless former woman. Meade reacts particularly violently, elbowing one in the chest, slicing off the hands of another, grabbing the lapel of one undead so he may strike it through the eyes. 

Once the huts are ablaze, it takes the men less than ten minutes to herd the undead and destroy every one of them. White and Ballard run back down around either side of the house, checking the perimeter for any undead that did not give chase. Meade takes off into the trees to catch two monsters which came from elsewhere, attracted by the sound no doubt. Fortunately, they were able to complete their task without any use of their rifles or pistols which would have made undue noise.

“I cannot believe such a scheme succeeded,” Hamilton says to Laurens.

“Fire makes quick work of the living or dead.”

“Yes,” Hamilton says, his tone grim. “But you as such bait to set it?”

Laurens reaches out and touches Hamilton’s cheek briefly. He sees the concern still on Hamilton’s face even with the success of their plan. He wishes he could kiss Hamilton now and put him more at ease.

“It did succeed,” Laurens says, “I am well.”

“Yes.” Hamilton looks unconvinced.

“We knew a danger to this mission; a danger to our very lives now.”

“I know.”

“It was a risk we agreed likely to succeed.”

Hamilton sighs and looks away at Meade returning, some blood on his lapel and two of their packs in his hand from where they had been stowed away. 

“I know all this.” Then Hamilton looks back to Laurens. “I simply would wish no risk to you at all.”

Laurens smiles fondly and squeezes Hamilton’s upper arm. He wishes greatly to kiss Hamilton, to lie down in the snow despite the cold and hold Hamilton close.

“Done,” Meade says, glancing between the two men. “And you?”

Hamilton looks down at the pile of bodies near them. “None have stirred once more.”

Meade makes an undignified noise. “Rising from the dead once is far enough for my senses, a second should be considered rude.”

Laurens and Hamilton smile at once. 

“Meade,” Laurens asks. “Should I call that a joke?” 

Meade glances up at Laurens, his lip quirking for a moment. Then his expression falls, his lips pressing tight. “No,” he says firmly. “I call it fact.” Meade turns back toward the house, White and Ballard now both waiting near the over turned cart in the fence. “Well?”

Hamilton and Laurens glance at each other then begin to walk down the hill. White hands back the rest of their packs once they reach the two men, only somewhat wet from their brief time in the snow. Then the five of them climb and pull each other carefully over the fortifications, avoiding sharpened logs and pulling out some looser sticks or broken furniture to allow them through. They walk briskly across the short gap between the wall and the house. Then Laurens knocks sharply on the front door. The door opens three seconds later to reveal a Corporal in a torn uniform.

“We have come to call upon General Knox,” Hamilton says.

“With compliments from General Washington,” Laurens adds.

“And with a purpose to bring all within to see him at once,” Meade concludes.

The man looks very much as if he would wish to start crying.

Inside the house, the aides find General Knox and twenty men under his protection.

“We had more a week past,” Knox explains as the men gather up the remaining food and weapon supplies for their exit. Once a man of some ample waist and chin, Knox appears thinner now, the weeks of their siege made plain upon his figure. “But no doubt you saw the break in our wall and house.”

“Indeed,” Laurens confirms.

“This half of the house fell and ten men with it.” Knox gestures to several tables nailed into doorways. “I suspect, despite your good work, many of those undead still wander the rooms within.”

“General Washington has decided upon action instead of fear behind walls,” Hamilton explains. “We go to gather what men still live and reform our army.”

Knox’s lips twist into a smile. “Better to die and fight than wait?” He laughs once with an ironic tone. “Just as the revolution itself, is it not?”

Meade raises his eyebrows but Laurens nods. “I think a simpler goal in this fight perhaps.”

“Sirs?” The ranking men turn to Ballard behind them now. “Your men are readied.”

Laurens and Hamilton turn back to Knox. “Meade and Corporal White shall see you back. Hamilton, Ballard and I are to seek out Lafayette.”

Knox nods. “He sent a rider a week past, but we have been too besieged since then for any messages in. It is a wonder our own was able to make it out to you.”

Laurens and Hamilton glance at each other. Meade looks away and busies himself with gathering paper and correspondence from Knox’s desk. None choose to mention how the horse lacked its rider.

Hamilton and Laurens walk with the party out to the main road, then split off in a southernly direction while Meade takes Knox and the larger party back north toward their own headquarters. Laurens wishes them luck as they go and hopes for no loss of men along their way. It is not a long journey and the light still favors them.

“Gentlemen,” Hamilton says to Laurens and Ballard. “We make for General Lafayette now.”

Ballard blows out a breath. “Less a walk at least.”

The three men turn down the road and toward the covered bridge. Lafayette’s headquarters lie at one of the far corners of the camp and only fifteen more minutes of a journey from General Knox’s house. With so many undead formerly clustered around Knox, they may be lucky to not meet any more of the creatures before they come within sight of Lafayette’s own house.

“If they all still live,” Laurens mutters to himself as they walk.

“The Baron’s house had word from him not long past,” Hamilton says. “I think it reason to hope.”

“But Knox’s own house half lost. The Baron’s fallen. Varnum, Maxwell…”

“We must maintain some hope or what have we?”

Laurens looks down at Hamilton, Ballard walking at least a yard ahead of them. “You,” he smiles. “I have you, Hamilton.”

Hamilton smiles back at him. “Am I all you should need to persevere in a state such as this, our friends dying and then standing once more?”

Laurens sighs but keeps his cheer. “You are the brightest point among all such darkness to me.”

Hamilton’s lips twitch as they walk under the arch of the covered bridge, the light lessening. Ballard is far enough ahead now that he steps off the bridge back into the light. Hamilton side steps close to Laurens and kisses him once firmly on the lips. He pulls away again just as quickly, Laurens leaning after him so Hamilton grins. Laurens sighs and wishes they could linger here, stand under the false security of the little bridge, watch the water and kiss until Laurens loses his breath and Hamilton stands slack against him, nothing to fear but discovery, no dead walking, no desperation, only this beautiful man in his arms.

“My dear Alex…” Laurens murmurers.

“Darling John,” Hamilton replies.

Then they hear a shout ahead of them. Laurens swings up his sword in the same moment that Hamilton unsheathes his short sword and pulls his pistol. They rush forward as they see Ballard fallen into the snow with three creatures set upon him.

“Ballard!” Hamilton shouts.

As they near, however, Laurens sees these are not undead. They are living men. They wear torn civilian clothing, bodies thin, with one holding Ballard’s rifle and the other two some short clubs. The one man slams his club into Ballard’s head as Ballard attempts to stand.

“Stop!” Laurens’ shouts as he and Hamilton run to assist. “Unhand him!”

The man with the rifle yanks Ballard’s pack off him, spilling half the contents as he rips it open. Another tries to pull Ballard’s coat from his back.

“Stop, I say,” Hamilton says holding up his pistol toward the men. “Leave him be. You need not rob him!”

“Good… god…” Ballard moans trying to twist away from the man grabbing at his coat.

The wild men do not reply to Hamilton, two still digging through the contents of Ballard’s pack while the other beats Ballard again and gets one arm of Ballard’s coat off. Laurens finally reaches the party and shoves the man accosting Ballard back.

“Enough!”

The man swings wildly at Laurens with the club, just missing his chest. Laurens jumps back, nearly tripping over Ballard on the ground.

“Back sir!” Hamilton says, moving around in front of Laurens and Ballard with his pistol out. “I would not shoot you, but you must desist.”

Laurens helps Ballard to his feet, checking the bleeding wound on his head. Then he moves quickly to the men ravaging the pack. “Stop!” He reaches them and grabs one man by the collar. “Leave this!”

The man knocks his head up into Laurens’ chin with a crack as Laurens pulls him. Laurens chokes back a swear and tastes blood in his mouth. He stumbles to the side and holds out his sword between them. The man’s eyes appear mad, wide and blood shot but still clearly alive. He growls low and rushes Laurens. Laurens tries to back pedal, to not hurt someone that still breathes but the man grasps at Laurens’ hat, his hair, his coat. Laurens finally hits the man in the head with the pommel of his sword, so he falls down into the snow.

“Please, stop!” Laurens hears Hamilton cry.

He looks up and over in time to see the man who accosted Ballard now running toward Hamilton. Ballard grips Hamilton’s coat, huddled behind Hamilton without a weapon. Then Hamilton fires his pistol, a sound loud and ringing in the still winter around them. The man pinwheels his arms then falls onto his face in the snow, a sprinkle of blood on the white. Laurens stares for two harsh breaths – they were alive, these men were savage and alive. Then Laurens turns as he hears the sound of feet running. The third man races off into the trees, Ballard’s pack clutched in his hands. The three conscious men stare after him, none giving chase.

“Ballard?” Hamilton asks, turning around putting his hand to Ballard’s head. “Are you well? Dizzy?”

“Some,” Ballard mutters. Hamilton holds up three fingers. Ballard nods slowly. “Three.”

“Good,” Hamilton replies.

“Are you well to walk?” Laurens asks, still eyeing the blood and forming bump on Ballard’s head.

“I would rather do so that than stay,” Ballard says, wincing as he picks up his hat.

Hamilton nods then moves to retrieve Ballard’s rifle, forgotten by their attackers in the snow. Laurens looks down at the unconscious man. He knows they should not leave him as an easy meal for any undead. Yet they cannot waste time to carry him. 

Laurens sucks in a sharp breath and turns away, leading Hamilton and Ballard on down the road. “Perhaps we should hurry.”

They walk ten more minutes in silence, Ballard with a handkerchief to his wound in–between Hamilton and Laurens should he need assistance. The woods remain quiet as they walk, no animals or birds but neither do they see any dead. Laurens’ spies the remains of a campfire and the shell of a cabin, picked clean of most useable wood. He hopes this means the wood taken to Lafayette’s headquarters for defense.

There is no warning as they come over the rise of the hill. In one moment, they walk alone in the snow, in the next they stand face to face with a swarm of more than a dozen undead soldiers – ragged uniforms with blood stained cloth, gaping mouths, broken arms with reaching hands, missing hats and dirty hair twisted over their features, groaning and moaning and howling for their surprise meal.

“Shit!” Ballard shouts as he tries to swing his rifle around and stumbles backward.

Hamilton jumps to the left to avoid a pair of arms and snapping teeth.

“Alex!” Laurens shouts, reflexively stabbing his sword to slice through the arm of one undead.

Laurens tries to escape toward Hamilton but two of the things stagger into his path. Laurens pulls at the ax in his belt as he plunges his sword into the skull of one creature but the ax catches on the leather. Laurens pulls with both hands, his sword coming free of the corpse, but he staggers backward as two more undead start to grasp at his ax hand.

“Laurens – John!” He hears shouted.

Laurens slashes his sword in front of himself again, catching two undead but slaying neither. He stumbles, trying to look for his companions. He sees Ballard rushing at all speed through a gap in the lines, his rifle gone.

“There!” Hamilton says and Laurens sees a flash of orange-red hair, nothing like blood – soft, beautiful, alive. “Lafayette’s!”

Laurens sees Hamilton’s point around the crowd and indeed the building is within sight now, still standing as far as he can tell. Yet the undead mass lies in their way, not just a dozen but more like twenty, twenty-five around them. Laurens tries to run around, left where Hamilton was on the other side of the mass, but the bodies tighten toward him, pushing him back.

“Away!” Laurens shouts, stabbing out again with his sword, felling one monster who was once a Private.

An undead grabs at his neck, tearing away a button at Laurens’ collar. Laurens chokes and jolts away, knocking into another undead beside him. He smells the foul odor of decay as one mouth bites toward his cheek. Laurens jerks back again, his hat falling and his elbow cracking on some dead bone. He finally pulls his axe free and tries to swing it up but the undead are too close, so he cannot raise his arm high enough. He shoves forward into the stomach of one creature, but it sticks in the mess of bone and rotting flesh. Laurens jerks his hand back, losing the weapon. He sees three mouths before him now, too close to his, only his sword up between them as defense. He feels hands pulling at his pack until the strap on his sword arm breaks and it falls off his other arm for the undead behind him to tear apart.

Then Laurens feet slip on the wet snow. Laurens falls hard onto his tailbone. He manages to keep his sword up to one side – black flesh, torn breeches, missing shoes and reaching hands. A mouth suddenly closes around his arm, teeth biting into his wool coat. Laurens shouts in alarm – no, he cannot die, not yet. 

Then the shine of metal stabs into the top of the monster’s skull on his arm so it cracks and oozes. Laurens pushes the face off and away, kicks out at already decaying knees in front of him. Another undead falls and then another with the sing of a blade. Suddenly, a hand grabs Laurens under the arm hauling him back up to standing.

“Laurens!” Hamilton lips brush his cheek in their proximity, Hamilton hugging Laurens against his chest then pushing Laurens behind him. “Go, run go!”

“Not without –”

“I am running!” Hamilton snaps as he fires his pistol into another of the undead so it falls and sends a second falling with it.

Laurens grasps Hamilton’s hand as they both start to run, shoving two undead away and making a gap. Laurens keeps his sword up as they go, slashing across some flesh almost blindly. He feels Hamilton smash the butt of his pistol into something but he cannot see. He focuses on the building ahead of them across the snow. He keeps his hand tight in Hamilton’s, forces himself not think about the teeth around his arm.

“How far?” Hamilton cries, his head turning to look behind them at the undead who pursue.

“Ten yards!” Laurens cries seeing now the tall rise around the building looking much like a redoubt – something safe, something they can make. He wonders if this is what Walker and North felt as they ran toward his Excellency’s house, hope and fear and the pounding in their ears.

Then Laurens hears a shout, “Fire!”

The sound of gunshots explode into the air around them. Laurens ducks instinctively but nothing hits him nor Hamilton. Laurens hears the thud of bodies falling behind him. He chances a look back and sees ten creatures fallen or dropping to their knees.

“Encoure!” the shout comes again as they near the gate.

Another round of gunshots split the air and Laurens hears guttural sounds, crack of bone and answering thumps. An opening suddenly appears in the wood wall, swinging up on ropes. Four men spill out, two on either side with their rifles drawn.

The voice cries, “Fire!”

The four men shoot on either side of Laurens and Hamilton as they all but fall through the gate, skidding to a stop in the mud. Laurens turns back. Through the gap in the wall he sees none of the undead remain standing. They litter the snow behind where the two of them ran like a clear marker of their path, body after body in a curving line. The four men outside the gate pull their rifles down, slinging them onto their backs.

“Check for supplies,” someone says from inside and the four men walk out into the snow, stooping over the once again dead.

“Bonjour, mon ami.”

Laurens turns back and looks up at the voice. The Marquis de Lafayette stands on the top of what appears to be a watch tower. Five stairs lead up to a platform with a cloth awning stretched above it. The wood looks to be once part of cabins, the cloth canvas like their tents. Lafayette grins down at them, hand on his sword pommel. His aide-de-camp, Gimat, stands beside him with a rifle in hand, still pointed out toward the snows. 

Laurens notices now how far out the fortifications are from Lafayette’s small house, at least thirty yards all around making the area much like a fort. The guard tower is positioned close to the wall but behind it stand ten cabins encircling the house, most poorly or quickly built but secure. A lean–to covers a pair of horses, both with blankets over them and tied to posts, as well as some crates of supplies. Men walk among the structures carrying food, a group working on repairing uniform pieces, twenty more drill in a far corner beyond the house.

“My God,” Hamilton whispers in awe beside Laurens.

“C'est si bon de te voir!” Lafayette says as he hurries down the stairs. He stops before them, taking the sword from Laurens’ hand then grasping his fingers.

It is only then that Laurens realizes he still holds Hamilton’s hand in his. He lets go with some reluctance as Lafayette shakes his other hand.

“You are alive!” Lafayette says back to English with his excitement dying down. “You are here and alive.”

“And your fortifications are impressive!” Hamilton says. “Your men… so many men!”

“And how well they shot,” Laurens adds.

Lafayette laughs once. “Do you think the Baron’s instruction for naught? Non, non. We may fight these beasts in just the same manner.”

Laurens notices Lafayette wears a leather vest of some kind across his chest and under his coat. The vest has three holsters, each holding a pistol in alternating positions. Clearly the purpose allows Lafayette to draw and shoot more rapidly with less need for reloading, three shots at once instead of one. He appears much like a pirate.

“Laurens! Your arm!” Hamilton gasps with sudden concern. “Oh Laurens… please no.” He grips Laurens’ arm and they both look down to where the undead bit Laurens out in the snow.

Laurens sucks in a breath. “Hamilton…”

Hamilton pushes at the ripped cloth, searching for Laurens’ wound. Laurens feels no pain at the press of Hamilton’s fingers, no wet blood. The both peer closer and see Laurens’ shirt not even ripped – no blood, no cut skin, no bite to injure him. The undead only managed to tear through the wool.

“Ha!” Hamilton cries, high and breathless. “You are not bitten. There is nothing.” He grins wide and grasps both of Laurens biceps, pulling him close enough to kiss. “You are not bitten!”

Laurens smiles wide back. “I am not.”

“Bien,” Lafayette says quietly.

The two men look at Lafayette again. He smiles at them and claps them both on the shoulder. 

Suddenly Laurens’ face falls and he steps back from Hamilton. “Ballard. There was another man with us.” He looks about. “Private Ballard.”

Lafayette points over Hamilton’s shoulder. “He runs far faster than you two.”

Ballard sits on an over turned barrel, another man holding a bandage up to Ballard’s head. Ballard glances at them and smiles in a grim manner.

“Well,” Hamilton says, turning back to Lafayette. “I say he had less undead desiring to eat his person once away than we two.”

Laurens laughs hard, the tone on the edge of hysterical. Then he breathes in deeply, calms the beat of his heart. “Lafayette, we are well pleased to see you. How many men have you?”

“How have you made this…” Hamilton huffs. “This fort?”

Lafayette grins at them. “We built the walls soon, not a few days after the first dead man.” Lafayette makes a face. “I confess some superstition and fear on my part that proved correct. Then many men from Woodford’s brigade joined us here as situations worsened, the more able men, the more parties we were able to secure, the more we could build as needed.” Lafayette gestures to indicate his men at work. “And we attempted several missions beyond this to find more men to bring to safety.”

“How many?” Hamilton asks. “How many men have you here?”

Lafayette glances up at Gimat. Gimat does not look down from his sights as he answers, “At least two hundred.”

“Two hundred!” Laurens gasps.

“Ten or twelve per cabin,” Gimat says. “And the rooms of our house full beyond.”

“With twenty men on shifts to watch our walls we make space enough,” Lafayette says proudly. “I would take in more.” He looks significantly at Hamilton and Laurens. He swallows and appears afraid as he asks. “Does your arrival mean what I should fear? General Washington…”

“No,” Laurens answers. “Not as you fear.”

“The opposite,” Hamilton continues. “Despite our own need for rescue, the General’s headquarters still stand and his intention is to bring all to him.”

“Oui?” Lafayette says with eagerness in his tone.

“Yes,” Laurens repeats. “As he said, ‘fight or die.’ We have been sent out around camp to gather those that live to His Excellency.”

“Tres Bien!” Lafayette explains, making Gimat above chuckle. “And what is our plan?”

“Either we retake Valley Forge or make for Philadelphia,” Hamilton answers. He glances around the camp. “I cannot say our fortifications quite as well as this however…”

“It does not matter,” Laurens says, drawing both men’s eyes. “Once reformed we will fight, not just defend. Can your men be prepared to leave? Do you think them able to make the trip? It is short but still one of danger.”

Lafayette smirks. “Mon Cher Laurens, we shall all be glad of such a purpose.”

“We may wait until tomorrow morning,” Hamilton says. “Give your men time to ready and all supplies possible to be gathered.”

“Oui.” Lafayette looks up at Gimat. “Donne ordre pour de telles preparations. Je veux tous les aliments, vêtements et munitions.” He looks down at Laurens and Hamilton once more as Gimat descends the stairs, trading his rifle to another man. “And you both? Êtes–vous bien?”

“We are now,” Hamilton replies, his eyes shifting to Laurens and his hand straying over the ripped cloth on Laurens’ arm.

Suddenly Laurens notices a sound; it is faint but it carries over the winter stillness. Laurens begins to smile as the sound grows, far off but continuous.

“What is that?” Lafayette asks with a frown. “It sounds…”

“Like drums,” Laurens finishes for Lafayette.

“And fife,” Hamilton adds.

Lafayette stares at them still in confusion. “What does it mean?”

It means General Greene has completed his mission. It means Gibbs and his men have secured the north. It means more of their men wait across the Schuylkil River. 

“It means,” Laurens says. “We are not alone.”

 

The following day, Laurens, Hamilton and Lafayette travel with their troop of two hundred back along Valley Road to General Washington’s headquarters. They avoid any large mass of undead along their way, snipers and swords guarding the outsides of their column to pick off any dead staggering near. When they arrive at the His Excellency’s gates, Harrison meets them there grinning wide. General Washington marches out almost immediately, grasping Lafayette’s hand with such elation on his face.

“It is good to see you back and alive!” Harrison gasps as General Washington leads Lafayette inside the house, still holding fast to Lafayette’s arm. “And you will be amazed at what you shall find beyond the river.”

“All returned alive?” Hamilton asks.

“Wayne and Greene?” Laurens continues.

“How many?”

“What is our plan?”

“What does the General say?”

Harrison holds up his hands so they quiet. He smirks at them. “More than two thousand men.”

“What?” Laurens gasps in surprise – a sight less than their army had been but more than they could have hoped for with the decimation from such undead attacks.

“Fort Huntington, the Commissary, even some of the entrenchments.” Harrison grins. “More men finding more endurance than we would believe. They are here, more behind you I see, and we have a chance.”

“A chance at what?” Hamilton asks. “Do we think to clear our encampment?”

Harrison shakes his head, glancing back at headquarters. All three men look at General Washington standing tall and resolute in the door. Harrison says, “We make for Philadelphia.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The remains of the Continental Army march to Philadelphia to join forces with the British, despite the danger and death which may lie ahead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A reminder to those familiar with Philadelphia and its suburbs, the city was smaller then. Also, yes, I am using the Schuylkill River Trail.

The woods beyond Valley Forge smell strongly of winter – snow and burning wood and death. The sun barely rises above the horizon to give the army under General Washington light by which to march. They would have marched sooner had not the danger of the dead in the dark deterred them. 

Behind the column, fires burn along the Schuylkill River to keep any undead who cross the half-frozen river at bay as long as possible. General Wayne and Knox had wished to burn all of Valley Forge behind them but General Greene, Huntington and Lafayette were able to convince them of the idea of the damp of winter causing such fires to fail in equal measure with burning undead walking such to spread the fire throughout the countryside beyond control. As such, merely a line of fire guards their back long enough for the undead soldiers of Valley Forge to be left behind.

Two thousand plus men now march toward Philadelphia. The march is perilous, what with their knowledge of how far this plague has spread to be limited and many smaller towns in-between their former camp and the city of Philadelphia. They have no information on how many undead may lie between themselves and the city nor the state of the city itself upon their arrival. They may be marching toward a hanging with the city safe and secure, the undead only within Valley Forge. This possibility, however, is unlikely. They have seen undead civilians in their camp, not camp followers, and desperate living. Regardless, they have little choice but forward.

“It is quiet,” Laurens says to Hamilton as they ride along the edge of the column toward the front.

“You sound like Meade.”

Laurens glances at Hamilton. “One would imagine an army marching to cause more noise.”

Hamilton makes a disbelieving sound. “I think they all fear the noise of their feet enough to risk anything further.”

Laurens nods as he glances at the men walking through the snow. All march with their rifles in hand and bayonets fixed. Scouts march through the woods on either side, a couple yards out, to protect the main line from any undead which may approach.

“If there are undead near in these woods, they hear us,” Laurens says matter-of-factly.

Hamilton glances off to the right into the trees. Laurens follows his eye, seeing the remains of what must have been a deer. It looks days old, however, which is comforting.

“Come on,” Laurens says and the pair of them urge their horses on.

Though most of the horses of the army have been lost to the undead or to their own starving need, more than a dozen remain allowing their Generals and the aides-de-camp to ride up and down the column. With two thousand men, a horse and rider is needed just for the head to learn what is the state of the rear.

“Report?” Meade asks as they ride up on either side of his horse near the front of the advance.

“Quiet,” Hamilton says with a glance and smile toward Laurens.

Meade makes a noise of assent. “And a quiet of safety or a quiet of coming danger?”

“I would think the latter ever present now,” Laurens retorts.

Meade gives him a glare and Laurens tips up his chin. “There are no imminent threats to be seen but I know we approach more settlements past Norristown, do we not?”

“Yes,” Meade replies.

“Then the danger may be at the front,” Hamilton finishes.

Meade sighs then urges his horse forward toward where General Washington rides beside Lafayette. Hamilton and Laurens glance at each other but make no comment. They both worry on Meade’s state of mind, he dropped so far from the cheer he inspired in others only days past.

“Perhaps we should attempt some memorial for those lost,” Hamilton says quietly after they ride a few minutes. “If only a small one for our own office.”

“Tilghman and Fitzgerald?”

“And Gibbs’ man from the Lifeguard.”

Laurens purses his lips. “I worry at the time to do so.”

Hamilton turns his head to Laurens. “We stop for rest at some point. We could ask the General to say some words?”

Laurens looks to Hamilton. “Do you think it like to improve anything?”

“I think I cannot think of a better alternative.”

Laurens huffs once though he smiles. “You are attentive.”

Hamilton shakes his head. “I am rational. I want Meade’s laughs and smiles returned as much as you but I fear he will push himself to a space where he cannot return if he leans only on his sword to soothe that ache.”

“A memorial, however sincere, may not be enough. Perhaps the sword is what he needs.”

“It would be what _you_ need.” Laurens gives Hamilton a sharp look. Hamilton raises his eyebrows and does not retract his words. “Meade, he has always been a kind man. He has thought more of others than his own pain through much of this war and Tilghman was beside him in this. To see his friend so destroyed before his eyes –”

“Enough.” Laurens pulls a hand away from his reigns to make a silencing gesture. “I saw it myself.”

“I simply say, I have seen what disaster and death may do to a man’s nature.”

“As have I.”

Hamilton shakes his head. “I do not mean the war, that at least can give men a reason at its core. I mean something beyond reason, like nature, like a hurricane killing children, starving hundreds with its floods.” Laurens stares at Hamilton – a mention of disaster in Hamilton’s past Laurens has heard before. “These undead are the same, they have no reason, no understanding, only their hunger and our death.”

“And we would not wish our Meade to become undead while still alive,” Laurens concludes.

Hamilton nods. They look at each other for another breath before turning back to look up the column. Meade speaks with General Washington, Harrison on the other side and Lafayette just ahead of the trio. His Excellency says something to Harrison and the aide turns his horse about.

Harrison rides past Hamilton and Laurens, pausing briefly. “We should be coming up on some smaller settlements. Ensure the men are vigilant. I go to the rear.”

Laurens looks over his shoulder as Harrison rides back. The thin horse torts quickly enough but Laurens worries at its longevity. Then again, he could think the same for any man or beast among them.

Five minutes more of walking and riding down the road brings word from Captain Gibbs in the lead of a small village center.

“We rest here,” General Washington says, Hamilton, Laurens and Meade all riding close to him now. “No more than a half an hour, water and what food can be spread among all the men.”

“Yes, sir,” Meade replies, turning his horse to spread the word to the lower ranking officers which remain.

“Lieutenant Colonels,” General Washington says to the two remaining. “I want a scavenging party to go ahead into the village. Clear the undead, if any, and acquire available supplies.”

“We may lead one ourselves, Your Excellency,” Laurens says.

General Washington gives Laurens a briefly concerned look which Laurens feels mirrored in Hamilton beside him. Then the General merely nods and urges his horse forward toward where Generals Wayne and Knox speak in low tones.

“To lead a party, will we?” Hamilton asks.

Laurens raises his eyebrows. “If we must judge at the very least on experience with these creatures and excursions into their likely domain, do you not think us two nearer the top of such a list?”

“I think most men of the army part of that list now.” Laurens frowns but Hamilton merely shakes his head. “It is done and I understand your aim.”

“Oh?”

Hamilton smiles. “You are the man of action.”

“And you beside me.”

Hamilton smiles more. “As I would prefer.”

Hamilton conscripts six more men, Walker and North among those, to join them in the short walk to the nearby village. At the start of the cleared road through the town, they see no immediate threats nor living people, only empty houses and packed down snow with wagon wheel duvets, horse hooves and many footprints visible. Hamilton pairs them off to take the three side streets while Laurens and he take the main thoroughfare. 

“Twenty minutes?” Walker asks, having overheard the General.

Hamilton nods. “If there is anything you cannot carry, shout.”

North gives him an alarmed look, ostensibly at the idea of making voluntary noise. 

Walker, however, scoffs once. “If we are like to find anything at all.”

Laurens and Hamilton walk down the road slowly, swords out and checking over turned wagons as they go. The settlement has an undeniable air of abandonment. They right one wagon together that still appears serviceable should they find any supplies. Laurens then moves toward one building, its door handing open, that looks, by its cracked sign, to have been a small apothecary.

“In so small a village,” Laurens mutters to himself in some surprise. 

Laurens pushes the door open wide with the point of his sword. He turns it around in his hand and slams the pommel loudly against the wood of the door frame. He braces himself but no undead comes shambling from the back room or stairs of the building. Laurens sheathes his sword again and methodically starts to look through the jars of herbs and remedies. Many are smashed on the floor or prove to be empty, yet he finds some that may assist their own remaining doctor. Laurens puts smaller jars into his pack as well as some cloth for bandages he finds under the front counter. 

Laurens stands up straight again and passes the doorway to the back room as he moves toward the second wall of shelves and cabinets with rows of jars. His hand touches one jar then he stops. He takes a step backward and looks into the other room. 

The top of a chair lies nearest his foot, two legs broken into sharp points. Papers from the desk litter the floor. He sees sketches, anatomical in nature, which appear very similar to that of humans; they are not human. Laurens crouches low and picks up one sketch. The creature on the page lacks eyes, charcoal black holes in their place with all the detail of a doctor sketching a wound – lines of cracked skin, broken flesh, a void where nerves were torn away. The mouth hangs open with rotten teeth, hair wild and long, bulging veins along its neck which the artist shaded to show them as dark red or blue in life. One hand of the undead in the picture reaches out toward the artist – a threat or entreat – but what Laurens notices is not the horror, not the malice, but the wedding band around one finger.

Laurens lets the paper fall from his hand to join the others – profiles, full length, undead with missing arms, with vacant expression, all with wide, open mouths and reaching hands. His eyes shift up and gaze at the far corner of the room where the work table lies on its side in an attempted barricade for the corner. The man who lies on the other side of the table lacks most of his face and chest cavity, a piece of charcoal still in his hand.

Laurens stands up once more and turns around, moving toward the door without checking the second wall of jars.

“Anything?” Hamilton asks as he exits the tavern across from the apothecary.

Laurens nods. “Some jars in my pack now.”

“Good.” Hamilton gestures to the bag over his arm which he adds to two others in the cart. “Some brew still bottled, little but I will not turn my nose to it.”

They walk on down the street again, Hamilton’s sword in his hand. Laurens reaches out and grasps Hamilton’s hand for a moment, squeezing hard. Hamilton looks up at him, a question on his face, but Laurens says nothing.

They walk down the road, buildings on either side. Laurens sees a dead cow to the right with a light layer of snow over it. They both search the next building but it proves only to be a tailors and nothing that helps their need of supply. The next two buildings on the left have been ravaged by fire. The roof of the second has collapsed under the insufficient charred wood. Laurens sees a blackened, bony leg protruding from under some of the smashed wood and stone. Hamilton abruptly grabs Laurens’ hand as he stops walking.

“Hamilton?”

Hamilton stares at the collapsed building, his breath quick. Laurens turns toward him, putting himself into Hamilton’s eyeline instead. Hamilton looks up at Laurens sharply.

“Hamilton?” Laurens says once more.

“I… it only reminds me…”

Laurens reaches out with his other hand and touches Hamilton’s cheek. He rubs his thumb once, wishing to say something soothing, something hopeful. His hand slides down to rest loose against Hamilton’s jaw and neck.

“Alex…” Laurens presses his lips tight. He has nothing worth saying. 

Hamilton, however, nods once at him and puts his other hand over Laurens’ – touching at two points, two hands, just the two of them.

“We should press on,” Hamilton says, a harsh edge to his tone but a clear master of his own countenance once more.

Laurens pulls back reluctantly, releasing their hands. 

They turn and walk on past the burnt husks and whatever poor souls may lie in a fitful rest there. They stop at a large house at the end of the buildings, near the courthouse which is the central terminus of the small town road. It appears to be a residence unlike most of the other buildings on this main stretch.

“Magistrate?” Hamilton guesses.

“Do you think this village big enough to have one?” Laurens retorts.

“It is near to Philadelphia.”

Laurens nods and unsheathes his sword as Hamilton walks up the steps, onto the porch and swings open the front door. He jumps out of the way and, when no undead comes racing toward them, looks back at Laurens. They enter the house, glancing left and right to the sitting room and the dining room. Laurens chooses the sitting room, most of it appearing untouched as if the residents are merely out for the morning. Laurens hears clinking from behind and looks over his shoulder to see Hamilton moving china about on the dining room table. It is set for dinner.

“No damage or blood,” Hamilton says looking back at Laurens. “Perhaps they were forced away unexpectedly.”

“And yet no sign of undead attack?”

Hamilton raises an eyebrow and Laurens raises one back. Then Hamilton shakes his head. “We are not here to suppose such ends.” He points at the rear of the house. “Supplies.”

“Yes, kitchens for you.” Then Laurens points up. “Above stairs?”

Hamilton shrugs once. “If you think it worthwhile.”

Laurens purses his lips then makes for the stairs. He takes them quickly, two at a time with no regard for stealth. He glances round in the first two rooms – a guest bedroom and a servant’s or nursemaid’s chambers. He roots briefly among the bed sheets, nothing worth taking. He finds a small knife on one side table and puts it in his belt. 

Then he steps back into the hall. The door to the master bedroom remains closed. Laurens pulls at the handle but it rattles with a lock in place. He pulls back then pauses. He hears the unmistakable sound of movement behind the door, a scratching and something like language.

Laurens takes a step back and ventures a, “Hello?”

The sounds grows louder – something or someone groaning perhaps, maybe a gurgle. He cannot quite tell if it to be the sound of a human hurt or something dead-like within.

“Hamilton!” Laurens cries.

Laurens tries the door again, pushes his shoulder against the door frame. It creaks and gives slightly as though such an attempt has been tried before.

“John – Laurens, are you…” Hamilton trails off as he sees Laurens pushing at the door.

“Someone is inside,” Laurens says.

Hamilton looks the door frame up and down. “Someone alive?”

“I do not know.”

“Hello?” Hamilton calls.

A rattling sound comes from within and a sharp scraping. Hamilton turns back to Laurens.

“Help me,” Laurens says as he thumps his shoulder against the door with more force.

“No,” Hamilton says pointing at the door. “We do not know who or what is within; there was no word of answer.”

“If someone should be hurt?” Laurens says slamming his body into it again. “A living person?”

“Then we should not be able to help them!” Hamilton insists. “We march again in but a quarter of an hour. What could we do?”

Laurens frowns at Hamilton as he rams his shoulder into the door again. “We could at least quicken their death.”

The door suddenly gives way and Laurens tumbles into the room. He falls forward with the surprise of door’s surrender and hits his knees. He catches himself with his hands on the wood of the floor and stares down at a severed hand. Laurens breathes in sharply and pulls himself up and away back onto his knees.

“Good God,” Hamilton gasps behind him, grabbing at Laurens’ arm.

Laurens sees another arm, a foot, some other undefinable chunk of meat. All such pieces lie around a set of chairs, one small and one fit for an adult. The scraping and moaning and gurgling comes from the two figures in the chairs. Both thrashing creatures have their arms tied to the arm rests with leather belts, likely their ankles tied to the chair legs as well, but Laurens cannot see for certain because of their skirts. The smaller creature – once a child of no more than six – gnashes its teeth toward Laurens, blood covering both its lips, sticking to its neck and the frills of its dress. The larger creature lolls its head, part of its jaw rotted away but its teeth still intact enough to click and dripple some viscous brown liquid over its chin.

“Stand!” Hamilton insists. “Stand, Laurens!”

Hamilton pulls at Laurens’ arm, forcing him to his feet even as Laurens grabs at Hamilton with both hands. The former woman’s and child’s fingers flex and stretch, still trying to free themselves so they may grab for the warm blood presented to them once more as it had clearly been many times before upon the opening of the door. It is then Laurens notices the body of a man in the corner. He slumps against the wall with a pistol in one hand, wound under his chin and his eyes still fixed on the chairs.

“He was keeping them!” Laurens says, his voice guttural and wild even to his own ears. “He was…. He was feeding… Hamilton, he was….”

“I know, I know,” Hamilton says, holding Laurens’ back flush against his chest to stop Laurens’ shaking.

“Who would… how could he….”

“His wife and child?” Hamilton says with a blunt tone.

Laurens lets out a harsh breath as he stares at the body parts with bite marks on them, bone showing where teeth gnawed down deep. He gasps again and Hamilton turns Laurens around in his arms. He touches both of Laurens’ cheeks and kisses him hard.

“Look away, darling,” Hamilton says, kissing Laurens again. “We cannot think on it, we must push on.”

“Yes,” Laurens whispers in Hamilton’s embrace. 

Hamilton moves back and pushes Laurens through the door. “Walk now, go.” Hamilton slams the door to the room shut behind them.

Back out on the road, they move quickly to the courthouse. Inside they find a few munitions remaining not looted by those who came before them. As they exit, two rifles in Hamilton’s hand and a barrel of powder pressing hard against Laurens’ chest, they meet Walker and North returned from their own scouting, the other four men walking down the main road dragging two carts toward their temporary camp.

“Powder is good,” Walker says, gesturing to Laurens. “We found a small amount of food ourselves.”

“Any trouble with undead?” North asks. “I did not hear anything of worry and we saw none at all.”

Hamilton and Laurens glance at each other quickly. Then Laurens looks back to the two men. “No, no trouble.”

Back with the column, the supplies are added to the wagons at the rear. General Washington still speaks with Generals Wayne, Greene, Knox and Huntington. Mrs. Washington attends to ten civilians who appeared from the woods while Laurens and Hamilton searched the town, half-starved and drawn by the hope of some type of safety with other living people.

“Much of me desires to be away from here,” Laurens confesses quietly while he and Hamilton give water to their horses.

“Somewhere less plagued by the dead walking among them?”

Laurens chuckles once, patting his horse’s neck. “Simpler than this, only an escape for you and I.” Hamilton looks up at Laurens from under his lashes as he bends to feed the last of a bag of oats to his horse. Laurens leans somewhat closer. “I should wish to care less for duty and honor and more for only you, for you safe, far away from where we march.”

“I march there willingly,” Hamilton says. “As do you. Would you flee?”

“No, never.” Laurens smiles and lets his one hand reach forward enough to graze Hamilton’s fingers. “Yet I work hard enough to bear this danger over us, over you. So near we have come to a death so gruesome.”

“We have fought a war for months before this, myself a year at least, and have risked death all that time, Laurens.” Hamilton’s hand turns over so Laurens’ fingertips touch his palm. “A death from the undead may be harsher perhaps, if you mean so, but it is no less certain than that of a bullet or sword.”

Laurens smiles. “If you mean to put me at ease, mention death less.”

“You spoke such first.”

“I know,” Laurens says, pressing his fingers to Hamilton’s hand. “Allow me my small flight of fancy in imagining us away and safe together, will you not?”

“Where then?” Hamilton asks. “A country house? So far from a town that no undead could wander within reach?”

“Yes,” Laurens nods, “with food enough and healthy horses to ride, wine in our cellar and wood to feed our fires against this snow.”

Hamilton nods along with him, stamping his feet once in the snow. “And a bed to share.”

“A bed to remain much of the day in.”

They laugh together again, eyes staring into each other’s, thoughts far from death and fear and horrors no man should see, instead thoughts of sunshine, and plentiful fields and warm sheets and soft kisses.

“Men!” 

Laurens and Hamilton snap out of their reverie. All the nearest officers and soldiers of the Continental army turn at the strong voice of His Excellency. 

General Washington mounts his horse, turning toward Philadelphia once more. “We march.”

 

It is no more than ten minutes on in the march when they find those who once lived in the village.

Laurens rides along the troops with North. A few undead reached the middle of the lines but all were easily taken care of by the outer scouts. Mostly they receive questions of water and food supplies. Laurens rides to the very rear of the column to check with Harrison and their wagons.

“We should last until the city at least, perhaps a week if we remain frugal,” Harrison says. “After that…” His expression appears grave.

“Could we diminish the size of rations?” Laurens asks.

Harrison shakes his head. “Perhaps but it would mean less to fight on. A man weak from hunger is not an attentive fighter.”

“Then we need not save rations into even lesser portions.” Laurens turns to Mrs. Washington who rides near. “I have surveyed our stores, we might disperse that which we can spare.”

“But if we exhaust our –”

“We ride to a city,” Mrs. Washington says, “we will scavenge.” She makes a rueful expression. “Has this not been the same hardship on the army even before our plague?” She nods once in the finality of a decision much like His Excellency. “We still have some women among our camp followers who can bring water up as a beginning. I shall make it so.”

Harrison raises his eyebrows high, North looking almost perplexed but clearly without any will to argue.

Laurens smiles at her. “Thank you, madam.”

“We should also send a party to the Schuylkill for more water,” North says to Lauren as they ride back ahead. “Perhaps even one of us on horse who can move faster.”

“It is a far ride down,” Laurens replies looking down the hill toward where he knows the river lies. They have followed the river’s path in their march but at this point the trail veers further away than other portions. “Far enough with threats possibly in the woods.”

“Men without water would turn into threats as well,” North retorts darkly.

“True, perhaps we –”

Laurens cuts himself off because he hears a gunshot. North looks at him sharply. He heard it too. They look to the left up the hill, steep on their left side. For a moment Laurens simply watches, something off about the look of the trees in the snow. The branches seem to wave with a wind he does not feel.

“North, is that…” Then Laurens sees the one soldier running, scratches on his face from branches, and more than a dozen undead chasing him.

“Shit,” North breathes out.

Laurens opens his mouth to shout, to tell the men to draw arms, when more undead emerge from the dense forest – five ahead and seven, no, nine behind. Laurens’ horse bucks in fear as Laurens pulls out his sword. The column of men twist around, rifles and bayonets ready but the undead appeared with little warning. One man falls with a shout, teeth and hands around his neck. Another screams and stabs out wildly.

“Arms!” Laurens shouts. “Arms!”

The scout reaches their lines, “more, sir, there are –” A bloodied undead in a torn brown coat grabs the man’s arm and they fall to the snow with a groan and a scream.

“Go!” Laurens shouts to North. “Tell His Excellency!”

North kicks his horse, quickly turning it about and galloping forward, the horse swerving right to avoid a grasping creature. Laurens sees the realization of the undead at the rear following in North’s wake, men turning back, a gap forming as men try to run away. Laurens turns back to the living and dead near him. He sees the undead cutting through the line of men, grabbing arms and sinking in teeth. One Corporal grabs an undead by the hair and stabs it through the skull only a second too late to save a young Private. 

“Hold!” Laurens shouts, slashing his sword down into the face of an undead nearing his horse. “Fight them back!”

The column starts to turn into a mass of moving bodies – bayonets stabbing, screaming voices, the unnatural movement of the revived dead, bones crunching and men trying to run. Laurens rides among the lines, stabbing his sword down into skull after skull. He cannot count how many creatures attack them – former men, women, even children, not a one ever a soldier.

The trail is narrow at this point, a hill upward on their left and another down on their right. Several men fall down the hill to the right, undead rolling after them. Laurens sees one man in a Virginia regiment uniform shoot an undead child so it flies into the open air before tumbling down. The narrow area makes the fight hard, makes the men more fearful – Laurens hears pleas, gasps, and shouts. Laurens tries to reach the rear, to cut off the flow of undead from one end at least.

A Captain points his pistol at one soldier with a bite on his cheek. “No, no – wait!” Then he falls to the ground as the Captain pulls the trigger.

“Run! Go!” A young sounding voice shouts.

Laurens whirls his head around, tries to count the threats, swings his sword at grasping hands. Then his horse whinnies high. Laurens turns back in time to see a brown haired former women with teeth and nails dug deep into his horse’s neck. Then his horse falls and Laurens hits the ground in a roll. Laurens gasps and gets to his feet immediately. He shakes his head to clear the blur, grabbing up his sword and hat. An undead rushes toward him – black boots and a torn white shirt. Laurens heaves his sword up with both hands and slices the undead’s face deep down the middle so it falls at his feet.

“Harrison!” Laurens shouts, running toward the rear, looking for his fellow aide. 

Laurens claps men on the shoulder as he goes. “Do not let them advance! Draw them toward the decline!” Laurens shouts.

He jumps in front of one man who stands frozen. Laurens stabs his sword through the nose of the undead with a knit cap and striped coat.

“Sir…” The man gasps.

“Fight,” Laurens snaps at him then shouts, “Herd them toward the decline!” Laurens points toward the hill below them. “Pair off, a man to decoy and a man to kill!”

The men start to shift, something more of a line fighting, less undead moaning and biting. They may not become overwhelmed yet. 

Laurens hurries along the forming line. He sees two wagons turned to cut off the rest of the trail; behind it lie the remaining supplies and camp followers. He sees Harrison and Mrs. Washington still on their horses in front of the wagons, guarding the makeshift fort and the people behind it. One solider lies near them, an undead eating from his chest. Another solider tries to stand fast beside Mrs. Washington’s horse but while he stabs one undead in the chest, another grabs his leg so he falls. 

“No!” Mrs. Washington screams.

She fires the pistol in her hand and shoots one creature, yet too late to save the soldier.

“Laurens!”

Laurens turns his head to see Hamilton and Lafayette riding toward him, Lafayette shooting with the second pistol from his leather waistcoat. Then Laurens also sees the undead soldier with blood coating its chest, its eyes now glassy as it grabs Laurens’ lapels and bites at his face. Laurens tries to get his knife from his hip, jerking his face away. He falls backward with the creature over him. Then his knife yanks free and Laurens plunges it into the side of the soldier’s head, black blood on his hand.

Laurens shoves the once again dead man off him. He turns his head back toward Harrison and Mrs. Washington to see a swarm of half a dozen undead closing in on the horses and their riders now.

“Back!” Harrison shouts but two undead begin to bite his horse.

The horse’s legs buckle and Harrison falls hard onto the snow and dirt, thrown wide from his horse. 

“Colonel!” Mrs. Washington shouts, pulling a knife from her saddle but she is too high.

Harrison turns his head, down on his stomach in the snow, and makes eye contact with Laurens. Laurens shoves at the ground, his feet slipping on the snow in his haste. He hears Lafayette’s voice yell something. But all Laurens sees is Harrison’s eyes as one undead sinks its teeth into Harrison’s neck and another bites down on Harrison’s outstretched hand.

“No!” Laurens screams, his feet finally finding purchase so he may stand. “Harrison! No!”

“Laurens!” Hamilton’s voice calls but Laurens keeps running toward the swarm as Harrison tries to fight.

Laurens hears a bone break in Harrison’s hand and he screams. Harrison’s uniform rips under greedy hands, teeth gouging into his chest. 

“Colonel!” Mrs. Washington shouts, throwing her knife surprisingly well so it plunges into the head of one of the creatures feasting on Harrison.

Harrison’s legs kick but two undead bodies still hold him down and he keeps on screaming – ringing in Laurens’ ears, his wide eyes, blood on his chin and his anguish in the sound.

Suddenly a gunshot rings out and Harrison falls still, a trickle of blood from the middle of his forehead. Laurens whirls back around and sees the third gun in Lafayette’s hand. Lafayette pauses for only a moment as he whirls around, sword in his other hand, to block the arms of a reaching undead coming toward him. Beside him, Hamilton shouts to the lines of soldiers, tells them to ‘form up!’ He turns back catching Laurens’ eye, panic on his face. 

Laurens turns back around remembering Mrs. Washington. She kicks out at one undead grabbing for her saddle and her leg, three more undead still around the front of her bucking horse. Laurens hurries toward her, attempting to load his pistol as he moves. Mrs. Washington gets in another good kick, looking up beyond Laurens. She smiles at what she sees then suddenly her eyes widen in surprise as she jolts backward in her saddle. Laurens sees a pair of arms from behind her horse pulling her down. He tries to run faster, dropping his pistol, jumping over fallen bodies, only meters away. Her arms flail, her elbow hitting bone with a crunch. Then blood starts to leak from somewhere behind her head, out of her eyes and ears. She moans low and sharp, her hands grabbing feebly at the undead tearing at the vulnerable lower back of her head and neck, its fingers wrapping around. Her jaw slackens, her eyes bulging wide, then her arms fall weak at her side. 

“Martha!” 

Laurens stops feet from the dying woman and feasting undead – nothing to do, no one to save – five undead still eating both people. One undead turns toward Laurens and he stabs it quickly in the face, unable to look away from the blood on Mrs. Washington.

“Martha!”

Laurens turns to see General Washington jump from his horse. His Excellency runs toward the scene, his sword and pistol in hand. He fires once, hitting the creature with its teeth in his wife. He slashes wildly at one undead in his path, hacking at the creature three more times even after it falls. The General’s eyes look crazed.

“Sir, it is too late,” Laurens cries. 

His Excellency bears down on Laurens, trying to push him aside.

“Wait,” Laurens says grabbing the General’s pistol arm. “Stop, sir.”

“No,” General Washington replies, pulling Laurens along in the snow as if he were no weight at all.

The General slashes his sword at one of the nearer undead eating Harrison’s horse, taking off nose and eye, then stabbing it again in the skull.

“Your Excellency!” Laurens pleads as General Washington stabs twice and then a third time into the same mashed skull.

Hamilton suddenly appears on the General’s other side, grabbing his sword arm. “Stop, sir, it is enough!”

General Washington yanks his arm hard, nearly smashing Hamilton’s nose, Hamilton ducking just in time. “Unhand me!”

“Sir!” Hamilton insists as Laurens says, “Stop!”

Lafayette runs past them, stabbing the last undead attempting to make a meal of Harrison. He then marches over to the two undead crouched over Mrs. Washington.

“No!” General Washington cries. “She is not gone yet!” 

His Excellency tries to walk forward, taking slow deliberate steps as he drags Laurens and Hamilton along with him on either side. Laurens cannot believe how strong the General proves now in his desperation.

Lafayette stabs one undead through the back of the skull so it falls over Mrs. Washington’s ankles. The other creature pulls its head up from the hole it makes in her abdomen with time enough to receive Lafayette’s sword between its eyes. It falls backward then moves no more. Mrs. Washington lies bloody and still in the snow, a red halo around her head, a wound in her stomach, tears in her skirts and trails of blood from her eyes.

The General growls loud and yanks his arm away from Hamilton. He steps close enough to stab his sword into one fallen undead. He stabs it through the eye, in the cheek, the neck, raises his arm once more. 

“Sir…” Laurens pulls hard, trying to drag His Excellency back. 

Hamilton grasps General Washington’s sword arm once more. “They are dead, General, they are dead!”

“Unhand me!”

Meade suddenly grasps General Washington about the waist from behind. “Enough, Sir! Stop!”

General Washington still fights them, his sword whirling around in his hand just barely above Hamilton’s head. “Unhand me, I must… I must…” 

The three aides all pull and push backward, attempting to stop their General’s frenzied aggressive sorrow as he tries to stab his way through anything around the body of his wife. Then Lafayette stands directly in General Washington’s path. He plants both hands on the General’s chest, and digs his feet into the muddy snow.

Lafayette bends his head low, nearly touching the General’s chest, “S'il te plait tu dois arreter.” He looks up again at the General’s face. “Please.”

General Washington stares at Lafayette, his body still now. The General’s breath starts to slow, the two men staring at each other. Then the sword falls out of General Washington’s hand to land next to Hamilton’s feet. General Washington gasps once and his knees slowly bend until he kneels on the ground, the four men sinking down with him. Lafayette wraps his arms around the General in a tight embrace, his head against the General’s chest. Meade keeps his hands flat against the General’s back, tears Laurens sees on his cheeks. Laurens holds onto the General’s shoulder, the General grasping at Laurens’ other hand. On his opposite side, Hamilton holds the General’s arm in both hands, his head turned to look behind them. Laurens looks over Lafayette to the bodies in front of them, Mrs. Washington with open eyes staring toward the heavens and Harrison’s eyes closed with a bullet hole in his head, both wet with blood. 

“Martha…” General Washington whispers. He breathes out slowly. “Harrison, he… Dear Lord, my Martha…”

A shudder runs through the General which they all feel. His head tips forward so it rests against the top of Lafayette’s. Laurens thinks if the General should cry now, Laurens may break apart.

“I am so sorry,” Lafayette whispers.

The General gasps again.

“We are with you, sir,” Hamilton says quietly. “This is not the end; we will beat them.”

No one responds to Hamilton’s attempt at renewed confidence, none of them can. Laurens breathes slowly, the five of them breathing in time – calm and fearful and less and every one of them devastated.

 

“We must press on,” Wayne says in a low tone.

Huntington shakes his head. “I do not disagree, but…”

“You cannot ask him to –” Lafayette starts.

Wayne interrupts with a hiss of, “We cannot ask him not to! Would you sacrifice the whole army for his mourning?”

“You are harsh, sir,” Greene retorts. “What is five more minutes?”

“Five more minutes for undead to find us once more,” Huntington replies.

“Would you not all feel the same were it your position?” Lafayette says. “He has carried us so far and may we not give him some relief in turn?”

“There is no relief from this,” Huntington says.

“And I do not think two thousand men an equal sacrifice no matter what his actions for this army,” Wayne insists. “We have a goal, do we not? We must meet it!”

“And what should you say?” Lafayette replies in a sharp whisper. “That the loss of his wife and friend are not worth his moment of sorrow?”

“It has been twenty minutes, more than a moment,” Wayne growls.

Lafayette glares. “A hardly adequate time!”

“But none of us have been allowed time,” Meade says suddenly causing the circle of Generals to all turn toward the remaining aides-de-camp. “We have lost friends and loved ones at every turn and been forced to press on. There must be time to mourn at the end of this, but we are not at the end.”

“And we would not lessen his sorrow, but we would turn him toward action instead,” Laurens says.

“He is strong enough, we all know this. We must simply set him back on the path,” Hamilton finishes and his voice drops. “And the men should not see him like this.”

“They speak the right,” Knox says, breaking his silence. The group looks toward him, but his eyes remain on the solitary man standing at the edge of the slope looking out over the trees. “I lost my own wife a week after this all began. I can understand his pain, but it is an end to all this that will be the only cure.”

“Then?” Wayne looks at the faces around their conference.

Greene shakes his head. “I would not know what to…”

Laurens sighs and grips Lafayette by the arm. “Come.”

He shoots Hamilton a look as he walks toward the General. Hamilton nods once in reassurance as he turns back to the Generals, “we must rally the men and be ready to set off.”

Laurens and Lafayette walk over to where General Washington stands, still and quiet. They stop on either side of him, clearly in his line of sight. Laurens glances at his face. He does not appear to have been crying or at least no sign indicates it so. His eyes still stare out over the wilderness, distant and seeing something else, perhaps some memory of his home, of his wife safe, of his life before this curse or even the revolution. Laurens cannot tell His Excellency’s mind and he cannot understand the loss of a wife. He thinks instead what if it had been Hamilton in Harrison’s place, what if Laurens’ last sight of Hamilton was his hand outstretched in a plea for help that Laurens failed to give?

“I find myself regretting our march from camp,” General Washington says, breaking Laurens’ own painful repose. “We were safe at least at Valley Forge with walls around us.”

“Tilghman changed into one of those monsters inside our office and killed Fitzgerald,” Laurens retorts, harsher than he intends. “We were not safe there.”

General Washington looks down at Laurens sharply. Laurens bows his head in immediate chastisement.

“She was safe,” The General says sharply. “She was as safe as she could be, not as on this road, not where I put her.”

“But she is gone now, Your Excellency,” Lafayette says, his voice soft and gentle. “She cannot return and she would not wish your own peril.” General Washington turns his head to Lafayette. “We are not safe here, motionless along our march, and there is no reversal of time.” Lafayette reaches out and touches the General’s hand. “We must move forward.”

General Washington looks down at Lafayette’s hand on his. He stares for a breath then looks up at Lafayette again. Lafayette nods once then grasps his other hand around the General’s. “Please?”

His Excellency nods back. “Yes.”

“Your Excellency?”

Lafayette lets go of the General’s hand as they turn toward Hamilton now standing behind the three of them. Hamilton holds out the General’s hat. General Washington takes the hat and places it atop his head once more. “Thank you.”

General Washington steps away from Lafayette and Laurens back to where Mrs. Washington and Harrison lie only a few yards away. The undead have been moved to the far side of the road so Mrs. Washington and Harrison rest alone, laid out side by side now. Walker stands near them as a guard against any additional harm be it undead or human.

“Sir?” Walker asks.

General Washington crouches down low over the pair of them. He fixes the lapel of Harrison’s jacket, lining it back up so a rip in the fabric appears almost gone. Then he touches his wife’s cheek, pushes away errant hairs. He breathes in deeply, his thumb near her lips then he stands up abruptly.

“Wrap them both up and find space in a wagon,” General Washington says to Walker. “They shall not be left behind.”

“Yes, sir.”

General Washington marches past them toward where the other Generals wait. Hamilton steps up beside Laurens so their shoulders brush.

“I cannot remove such a sight from my mind,” Hamilton whispers. “His frenzy… his sword so ready to fell anything in his path into oblivion.”

Laurens stares at the muddy snow at their feet, feels a shiver run through him. Then he turns his head to Hamilton. “I would have been the same, were it you.”

Hamilton looks up at him, his lips pressed tight then he lets out a breath and squeezes Laurens’ hand.

 

The army continues their march on toward Philadelphia. The scouts ahead and behind the march are doubled, at least one man on a horse so word can be sent quickly about any attack. The path widens out some and all the men remain high on alert toward supposed threats from either side. Laurens, Hamilton and Meade ride up and down the column faster than before; Laurens now on Mrs. Washington’s horse which managed to escape harm unlike his own. Any undead is dispatched quickly and quietly, swords and knives and bayonets always in hand. 

A steady and continuous march from Valley Forge to Philadelphia would take eight hours under the speediest conditions. What with their assault and occasional stops for rest, and the unavoidable pace of over two thousand men and wagons, their march takes some ten hours instead. The sun beings to set as they halt their march upon the breaking of the woods and the cleared outer edges of land around Philadelphia. They stop where their path along the Schuylkill and the main road from the west of Pennsylvania into Philadelphia meet. Three tall British guard towers flank the main bridge over the river.

“They appear to be unmanned,” Gibbs says upon his return from scouting forward. “There are signs of some fight, bullet holes and wreckage. I did not find bodies, dead or undead.”

The column marches forward with Gibbs’ safe report, stopping upon the lawn of the guard posts at the edge of the river. General Washington, Lafayette and the aides climb the stairs of the central guard post to get a better view of the city in the fading light. The General looks through his spy glass before passing it off to Hamilton beside him and then on around. Laurens looks through the glass to see the barracks on the north side of Philadelphia also in a state of abandonment, some signs of fire among the buildings. Along the road he spies broken wagons, dropped weapons, the carcasses of horses. He cannot see clearly as far as the edge of the city, but he hears the sound on the wind – moaning, growling, the sound of a moving crowd – the undead.

“It is as we suspected,” General Washington says.

“The undead of their making have turned on them,” Laurens says as he passes the glass to Lafayette. “As they deserve.”

“No man deserves to become such an unholy monster,” Hamilton hisses.

Laurens turns to him with a shake of his head. “I do not mean those poor souls made such, I mean the men who began it. Let them see the hell they unleashed upon us at their own door.”

“I would not wish this upon even them,” General Washington says, his tone brooking no contradictory opinion. “Remember, the British may have begun this, but we need them to finish it. It is our sole choice now, we keep any anger in check.” He gives Laurens a look which Laurens cannot deny. The General has more cause than he for anger now.

“And think this,” Meade says, something like a smile on his face. “Their red coats shall make for a flashier draw to our undead menace, yes?”

The General laughs once in obvious surprise, Hamilton and Lafayette with him. 

“Meade,” Laurens says, “a joke?”

Meade smiles and his voice cracks, “Yes, someone must.”

Hamilton grips Meade’s arm, squeezing once.

“Thank you, Meade,” General Washington says.

Meade looks down, his countenance still unsteady. He looks up again. “Duty first.”

Lafayette then pulls the glass down from his eye, turning back to the group. “I cannot estimate how many undead may lie before us, but we must assume it a city’s worth, mustn’t we?”

“Yes,” Hamilton says. “Civilian and soldier alike.” He frowns then glances around. “Could it even be Howe and Clinton have fallen and the city is but full of ghosts?”

“Would the undead still remain here then?” Laurens asks. “If there were no living they wish to feed upon within the city, would they not move on?”

“We cannot know their behaviors,” Lafayette counters. “They are something unknown in both form and action; what can we know about them but what we see when we are close?”

“Our aim remains the same,” General Washington says, taking the glass back from Lafayette. “We will breach the city and find the British troops within. I will not accept the idea of all having been lost. They have the Delaware at their backs and ships upon it. I think the greatest military on earth able to persevere.”

“Second greatest,” Laurens retorts with a twist to his lips.

Meade and Hamilton both laugh, Hamilton nudging Laurens with his shoulder. General Washington gives them a look, but it contains a glimmer of mirth beneath his resolve.

“We camp here tonight along the Schuylkill,” His Excellency says as they descend the tower back to the ground. “Set a full line of guards around the perimeter, two hours a shift. Have the Generals assign from their remade brigades. At sunup we formulate our plan and enter the city.”

 

General Washington confers with his remaining Generals for several hours into the night. Wayne rallies for a frontal assault while Huntington proposes gradual luring of the undead until they made a clear path. Lafayette advises upon the failure of both options. Greene suggests use of the river while Knox reminds all about cannons in the British barracks. The compromise among the officers proves to be ambitious, harrowing but also with an eye toward saving as many lives as they may.

“We always know the loss of men in battle, this is the same,” General Washington reminds them all. “I would now, however, make that loss as few as possible so we have some left alive to rebuild at the end.”

As the sun rises, Knox and Huntington take a third of the troops around the south edge of the city. Wayne and Greene take another third along the north edge past the British barracks and cannons to use. General Washington puts Lafayette in charge of the third which remains to cover any possible retreat.

“I would prefer to be by your side,” Lafayette insists in a hush. “If you are to broach the center of the city…”

“No,” General Washington says sharply. “Your men will help clear this western edge and we require a force for our exit.” Then his voice drops so Laurens barely hears. “I will not risk your loss.”

Their plan for entry into the city, toward where they suspect Howe and his remaining men must be, requires the use of the gird pattern of Philadelphia to their advantage. As Lafayette’s men clear their approach around the main road of the city, General Washington with the aides-de-camp – Walker and North included – will ride directly in having Gibbs and a small force of the Lifeguard and runners ahead. As they reach each bisecting street, two runners – the fastest estimated among their remaining men – shall one each take the left and right as decoys for the undead within the city. They shall run, not engage, those undead to lead them north and south. With all hope, most of the undead shall follow the decoys outward into the hands of their waiting troops and leave most of the main road clear for General Washington’s personal advance.

“Why must it be you, sir?” Laurens asks upon reveal of the plan. “Would it not be better that another make such a perilous approach first?”

General Washington shakes his head. “With the state we are in, I think Howe only likely to listen or allow us entry should it be myself in the lead. Any other he may choose not to believe or shoot upon approach. It is I who he will listen to or, at the very least, wish to capture as if this war sill remains as it had been.”

On the southern and northern fronts, the soldiers and cannon will endeavor their trick of Valley Forge in making noise enough to also draw the undead to them. With hundreds of men and cannon, along with runners within, the majority of the undead will be draw away toward slaughter and their path toward the British command clear.

It is not a perfect plan. They cannot know the number of undead. They may prove to be wholly unmatched for whatever number lies within and may find themselves to be the ones set for slaughter. The British may no longer live inside the city and their mission could prove for naught. The British may even refuse to listen and choose to make them all captives instead. Yet they must try with such a plague likely spreading throughout the country and the whole of their colonies at risk of decimation. Their only choice is to fight.

Laurens and Hamilton ride just in front of General Washington, Meade, Walker and North behind him. Gibbs, the Lifeguard and two dozen more soldiers – Ballard among them – ahead of Laurens and Hamilton start to run toward the entrance of the city of Philadelphia where the undead wait along the wall.

“Fire!” Lafayette shouts behind them.

Gunshots ring out and several undead fall to the ground. The other creatures begin to turn, noticing the new prey, and walk in their direction. They shamble through the snow and along the dirt road, turning away from the brick wall around the city. They move faster once they see humans coming toward them.

“Fire!” Lafayette shouts again, his voice further off now as they ride.

Laurens keeps his sword up in hand, watching undead fall once more. They appear from the road ahead, rising up from the snow even.

Gibbs on his horse reaches the first line and stabs his sword into a waiting former woman – blond hair with wilted flowers. The men behind him shout in appreciation, swinging their bayonets up and felling more undead.

“Keep on!” General Washington shouts as they ride, closer to the edge of the city now.

Several men, move outward from the city entrance, keeping the undead back from the road, pushing them along the wall. Gibbs and the majority of his men advance through the entrance and into the city.

As they ride, hands reach up, grabbing at Laurens’ leg and horse but Laurens does not stop. Lafayette will deal with those behind them, they must only move forward now. Hamilton kicks one former man in the jaw as they ride, struggling to get his foot back in the stirrup. Ahead, Laurens sees the first pair of men disappear down the side streets along the edge of the city wall. In the distance, Laurens hears cannon fire, shouting and singing from the north and south. Their battle has fully begun.

“Stay straight on the road until we turn,” Hamilton says back to the whole party. “Follow us!”

“You will know Independence Hall when you see it,” Laurens adds. It may not be where Howe chose to make his base but it the likeliest option.

They must ride past three streets then turn right onto the fourth. The main road through Philadelphia is Market street, but Independence Hall lies on Chestnut, a street parallel to the south. They must clear a path as far as this to allow them through. 

Laurens stabs down at one undead which grasps his ankle, spearing it through the skull. He yanks his sword away just quickly enough to avoid losing it as they ride.

“Blast!” North shouts behind Laurens but he hears no further sound of alarm.

Then Laurens and Hamilton clear the city wall. The buildings rise up on either side of them, blocking the further view they once had. Laurens sees curtains blowing from broken windows, doors hanging off hinges. In the street, he spies a torn bag of meal, mixing now with dirty snow. Gibbs shouts something ahead of them, the gap between his men and Laurens’ approach lessening.

“Look out!” Hamilton shouts.

Laurens twists in his saddle, pulling the reigns to the left as a cluster of three undead, once children, rush his horse. Laurens swings his sword down at them, killing none but removing the hands of at least two. His horse whinnies in alarm, kicking out and nearly unseating Laurens. But Laurens tugs at the reigns, squeezes his hips around the horse and urges it forward and away from the small, hungry undead.

“Children…” Hamilton gasps nearer Laurens now. “Good God… children.”

“Keep riding,” Laurens insists.

Behind them, they hear a gunshot. Laurens turns to the see the General pointing his pistol behind them, some undead crawling up the rear of Meade’s horse. The undead falls back and Meade’s horse bucks wildly. Walker reaches out, trying to grab the reigns and calm the animal before Meade may fall.

“Ahead!” Hamilton shouts.

Laurens spins back around in his saddle. He must trust the others and keep them moving forward. They pass the second street, near apace with Gibbs and the Lifeguard now. Laurens turns to see one man running down the side street, shouting as he goes and swerving around a pair of undead women who reach for him.

“I hope they run fast,” Laurens says.

“They knew the risk,” Hamilton replies then turns sharply to slash his sword down once more as an undead with dark skin and a chain on its ankle nearly bites Hamilton’s boot.

Laurens thinks about the men and women in chains or cells unable to run away, left to any undead who may ravage them. This plague brings even further misfortune to those in bondage and not the tools with which to fight back.

“Wagon!” Gibbs shouts.

Laurens sees Gibbs swerving his horse around a wagon in the middle of the road. Two Lifeguard try to push it aside, their feet slipping in the wet snow on the muddy road. Hamilton and Laurens slow their horses as they near, the wagon blocking much of the road. Several of Gibbs’s men make their way around the wagon; but the path left of the road, what with fallen brick added from the building where the wagon must have crashed, is too narrow for horse.

“Come on!” Gibbs shouts, another man joining the two in attempting to move the wagon.

Laurens shifts his horse around to guard the men. Several undead from the steps of the bank start to move toward them, moaning loud, and more from the opposite side of the street and what was once a boarding house make their way nearer. Laurens sees General Washington and their comrades riding closer, straight into an unintentional trap.

“Move the wagon!” Hamilton shouts, throwing a knife expertly into the face of one undead that closes on Gibbs.

The wagon beings to move but too slowly. Laurens sees large barrels still weighing the rear of it down, the wood wet and sluggish against the packed earth. Laurens swings his leg over then jumps down from his saddle. He pulls his horse close and takes the leather straps laid in the street still attached to the wagon and ties them hurriedly to his horse’s saddle.

“And now, one, two three,” Laurens snaps urging his horse forward, pulling at its reigns while the men push.

“There, yes!” Gibbs shout.

The horse huffs and strains, its ears far back against its head, but the wagon moves forward. Laurens hears hoof beats behind him, another gunshot, Hamilton shouting something.

“Again, more!” Laurens shouts and they keep pulling and pushing. 

Then the wagon bumps up against a horse stand, only feet from the buildings. Laurens turns back and sees a wide enough path in the road, just in time for General Washington to ride through. Laurens quickly frees his horse from the mess of wagon and uses the edge of the wagon’s wood to step up and back onto the saddle. His horse huffs and stamps its feet, but Laurens turns them about and into the road once more.

Hamilton waits at the edge of the wagon, Gibbs moved on ahead now and undead still behind them.

“Not all are following our runners,” Hamilton says as they both canter off down the road. “Some follow us.”

“We knew it was not a perfect plan.”

They ride after their companions, some soldiers on foot between them. Laurens sees Ballard still with them, grabbing another Private by the collar to avoid the gaping jaws of a bloody former women with reaching hands. The undead appear to be more numerous here as they ride further into the city. Walker and North ride on the far edges of the street, attempting to keep the undead away from the General and center of the street. Their task seems a losing one, at least six near Walker and another four trailing North.

“Keep moving!” Hamilton shouts, urging his horse on faster so they may overtake General Washington.

Meade rides still close at His Excellency’s side, his sword in his free hand and a knife clutched in his hand which holds the reigns of his horse.

A cannon blast splits the air sounding near enough to be overhead, as they pass the third side street. Four men break off this time, two in either direction. They whoop and yell, kicking up mud and discarded items from households. Laurens watches a great deal of the undead around them turn and take the offered bait. 

“Nearly there!” Laurens insists, in front of General Washington again.

He tries to count the undead they pass, most clustering around buildings. He sees a few buildings which look possibly secure, furniture piled in front of doors, windows boarded over but nothing broken. Laurens wonders if the whole city is not yet abandoned and some civilians still hide within. Perhaps they liberate more than the British here.

Suddenly, Hamilton shouts and Laurens sees his horse buck up. Hamilton grasps at his horse’s neck but the horse rears up again, two undead before it and one with its teeth in the horse’s leg. Hamilton falls from the saddle, a shout as he rolls and hits a stone street marker.

“Hamilton!”

Laurens pushes his horse closer, stabbing one undead through the mouth. He sword sticks for a moment as the body falls, trying to drag Laurens down too. Laurens pulls hard so the sword snaps free then whirls his head around to see Hamilton.

“Hamilton!”

Hamilton stands with a stumble to his left, his sword held up in front of him. He shakes his head once, a dizzy nature to his stance. One undead in a British uniform advances on Hamilton, grasping his arm so Hamilton cannot swing his sword.

“No!” Laurens pulls out his loaded pistol, cocks it quickly and fires a shot. 

Hamilton gasps hard as the former man falls to his knees, knocking into Hamilton’s shins.

“Come on!” Laurens shouts, reaching down to Hamilton. “Here.”

Hamilton sheathes his sword then grabs Laurens’ arm. Laurens pulls with all his weight, Hamilton grasping the horse’s saddle to pull himself up. He starts to swing up a leg when another undead in a torn black coat grabs Hamilton’s leg instead, its teeth gnashing on Hamilton’s boot.

“Away, no!” Laurens gasps, tries to pull harder as Hamilton slips. “Come on!” Hamilton squeezes tighter on Laurens’ arm, the horse trying to twist away too. 

Laurens pulls and attempts to bring his sword around, but the angle is too far. “Hamilton!”

Then a sword stabs through the throat of the undead man, twisting around and slicing up so half of the creature’s head severs and flies away. Hamilton heaves himself forward and up into the saddle, tight against Laurens’ back. They both turn their heads around to see Walker with sword in hand.

Walker grins wide at them. “Paid you back now, yes?”

Laurens laughs once, elated and half hysterical with adrenaline. “Not if we should save you again.”

“I hope you shall not have the need.” Then Walker kicks his horse in the flank. “On!”

The three of them ride forward, General Washington and Meade having passed them. North waits at the turn in the road, Gibbs and half a dozen soldiers attempting to hold back the undead which advance from further up Market Street.

“You must go now!” Gibbs cries. “Too many come and you know we cannot divert them as well.”

“Gibbs!” Meade gasps. “You cannot!”

They see now dozens, maybe fifty, a hundred even, undead walking their way. Two men run down the north direction of their bisecting road but only few of the undead follow. More appear to have learned their gambit and choose to remain with the larger party on horseback as a potential meal. Laurens sees pale dead eyes, rotting feet, broken fingers and every one with moaning, gaping mouths.

“We cannot pause!” Meade shouts.

“We shall keep them at bay,” Gibbs snaps, his men fanning out into a line along the road, blocking most of the undead from the path the others must take. “We shall gain you the time!”

“No,” Hamilton gasps, his one hand clutching at Laurens’ stomach in his distress.

“Go!” Gibbs snaps again – two of his men stabbing out with bayonets beside him, another in the middle of the line suddenly falling to his knees, two creatures biting his throat.

Laurens sees Ballard at the end of the line, turning a second too late as an undead woman in a red dress sinks her teeth into his arm. Ballard shouts, wrenches himself away right into the waiting jaws of another undead man missing an arm. Ballard falls kicking and screaming, and Laurens may only watch.

“Captain Gibbs,” General Washington cries suddenly, loud and commanding, “I commend you for your service.”

Then General Washington kicks his horse forward and they all must follow him, leaving Gibbs and the other soldiers behind to their losing battle. Laurens prays for them in his mind and grips Hamilton’s hand against his waist. 

General Washington, Laurens, Hamilton, Meade, Walker and North ride in a tight group now. Five horses between them, Washington at the head with Meade on his left, Laurens and Hamilton to his right with Walker and North behind. Though they keep their swords drawn, they do not attempt to fell any undead along their way. They simply urge their near panicked horses forward toward their destination.

It is only one block further to Chestnut and Laurens sees their guess to be thankfully correct. A fortified wall of wood and brick rings the city block which contains the large buildings of Independence Hall and City Hall. Laurens sees the red of British uniforms high atop the buildings.

“Sharpshooters,” Meade gasps. “I hope they would not think us –”

Then the sound of a gunshot answers Meade’s question. North cries out, spinning around and falling off his horse. He lands hard on his back, blood streaming from his face.

“Billy!” Walker shouts, stopping his horse right as they reach the edge of the British wall.

Walker runs back to North, grabbing him by the arms and pulling him away from a pair of approaching undead soldiers. North holds a hand to his bloody face, more a flesh wound than a kill shot.

“Hold your fire!” Laurens shouts up to the guards. He lets go of the reigns, pulls a handkerchief from his coat and waves it high above his head. “Allow us inside!”

“We live!” Hamilton shouts as well. “We bring General Washington!”

“Behind us!” Meade shouts.

Laurens turns his horse about, slower with the weight of two men. He sees General Washington swing his sword and take off the head of one undead close beside them. A dozen approach them, too close, backing them up against the fortified wall. Walker drags North behind their horses, leaning him against the wall then standing in front of him.

“We must get inside!” Walker insists.

Meade tries to load his pistol, dropping the bullet as he is forced to stab out with his knife at an undead woman. Walker’s abandoned horse whinnies somewhere far off and Laurens hears the audible sound of its fall under attack. 

Three undead circle Laurens’ horse making it rear up despite the weight upon it. Laurens and Hamilton fall immediately with the imbalance. They roll over each other, legs tangled and swords just missing them both. Laurens feels something grabbing his leg and he kicks out hard. He turns to see the heel of his boot deep within the rotting face of an undead sailor. He pulls his foot back and scrambles around onto his knees. Laurens’ horse gallops away with undead chasing it; General Washington shous up at the British as he stabs his sword into another undead; Walker fires his pistol; Meade swings his sword. Then Laurens focuses on Hamilton closest, two undead on top of him. Hamilton keeps them both away with his hands against their throats but they twist and gnash their teeth pushing downward.

“Alex!” Laurens shouts.

Laurens lunges out with his sword stabbing at the one creature. His sword buries in the thing’s eye socket, still moving somehow. Laurens heaves his sword to the left making the undead fall off Hamilton. Laurens twists his sword, slicing through brain and out the back of the undead’s skull. Its hands fall limp and Laurens jerkily pulls his sword away again. He huffs hard. He hears Hamilton gasp and cry out, like a sob. He turns, watches as Hamilton plunges his knife into the top of the second undead’s skull, its teeth mere inches from Hamilton’s chest now. It falls over Hamilton. Hamilton rolls to his side, pushing the creatures away. Hamilton curls around himself for a moment, breathing hard.

“Hamilton?” Laurens touches his shoulder. “Come, stand up.”

Hamilton reaches his arm back and grasps Laurens arm. Laurens stands, pulling Hamilton up with him. They turn to their companions, General Washington and Meade still on horseback, undead close to where Walker stands before North.

Then they hear the sound of creaking. Laurens turns his head and sees a break in the wall, a gate opening.

“Come!” A man cries. “Inside, hurry you!”

A few gunshots ring out, an undead in font of General Washington falling down and another nearer Laurens cracking its skull on the cobblestone of the courtyard.

Meade and General Washington turn about, riding quickly through the gate. One of the British soldiers steps out and helps Walker pull North to his feet. Another man appears in front of Hamilton and Laurens, grabbing them both by the arm.

“Run, now!”

They do not pause or look back but follow the man quickly through the opening, stumbling in their hurry. The gate closes fast behind them with a crunch, the hand of one creature crushed in the seam. 

Laurens sees the British soldiers put a heavy horizontal beam back in place over the gate. All along the wall Laurens sees heavy logs leaning to prop up the wall and keep it sturdy. Inside the wall, at least a hundred soldiers stand in clustered lines. It looks as if they are on patrol but there are more of them than needed for the space. Laurens thinks perhaps this must be their last line of defense, too many squished in the small fort. They appear nervous, worn out, most casting hopeful glances toward them while others outright stare. A British doctor tends to North near the wall, Walker hovering near.

“Sir?” A British Captain stands in front of General Washington as he dismounts his horse. “You are General Washington?”

Meade shifts close to the General, his sword still up.

“Stand down,” Another British snaps at Meade.

Meade only glares and keeps his stance. General Washington puts his hand over Meade’s sword and forces it down. Meade glances quickly at His Excellency then sheathes his sword. Laurens and Hamilton step close to the General as well, flanking him on the right while Meade stays on the left.

“I am General Washington,” The General says to the nervous Captain. “We have come to speak to General Howe. I think it obvious our intention with your state here under undead siege to be as dire as our own was.”

“Yes, sir,” the Captain whispers. Then he clears his throat, his voice gaining strength once more. “Follow me.”

It takes little time and less convincing once their party meets with General Howe and Clinton. 

“You can have no doubt as to why we made such a perilous journey to you,” General Washington says on the opposite side of Howe’s desk upstairs in Independence Hall. “You brought this blight upon us.”

“It was not an idea of my making!” Howe snaps.

“We may concern ourselves with blame at a later time,” General Washington pushes on. “The need of the now is overcoming it, as it has expanded beyond your control.”

Howe stares out the window, a white wig still on his head though his entire person looks shabbier than a British officer may conventionally allow. Laurens suspects several days at least without sleep and in the same uniform.

“We sent much of our force away to New York for escape and reinforcements. I do not know the spread of these beasts form here.” He looks back at the General. “How much of your men remain?”

“Two thousand,” General Washington replies. “I do not know of my forces of the north or south yet.”

“And you think to combine our troops?”

“Yes.”

Clinton scoffs. “Only two thousand? You think that enough to add to our men and win?”

“Do you think we have a choice?” Laurens snaps stepping forward.

Meade puts a hand on Laurens’ arm and he steps back once more beside Hamilton. Hamilton holds his arms crossed tight around himself. He glances at Laurens and smiles slightly.

“We must join our forces, all the men we each have in this country to fight this undead plague back,” General Washington says. “If we think only on our former fight then the undead with over take us both and win. They are the only enemy we must battle now. If we do not, it will spread and all those who still live in this nation, be they American or British, will turn into the same monsters. You would not wish this and nor I. We must fight together to save the whole, do you agree?”

General Washington holds out his hand. General Howe stares at him for a breath then takes His Excellency’s hand. “Agreed.”

General Washington and General Howe, with General Clinton and Meade, gather around the desk to discuss strategies and assets available. Hamilton, however, pulls Laurens away back out into the hall. 

“Hamilton?”

Hamilton peeks into the next room then pulls Laurens inside, closing the door behind him. The room is empty, a circular table with rolled sleeping mats atop it, some rifles propped up near the windows and crates along both walls, possibly once a meeting room but now just another barracks.

“Hamilton, what is amiss?”

Hamilton faces away from Laurens, breathing in and out slowly. He turns around, his arms tight acoss his chest once more.

“Laurens…” He breathes in deeply. “I must tell you, since we met… since we became close as we are, it has been among some of the happiest months of my life.”

Laurens frowns, concerned by the tone of Hamilton’s voice. “Hamilton…”

“I have valued each and every hour we have been allowed together. I have treasured the intimacy we have shared.” Hamilton laughs so it sounds like a gasp. “The trust you had in me, the nights I lay in your arms and you in mine.”

Hamilton moves closer, pulls one hand away from his tight posture to touch Laurens’ cheek. “I have cared for you more than any other person, woman or man.” He leans in and kisses Laurens quickly. “That…” He sighs. “I have so adored that. Your lips, your kisses…” His eyes circle Laurens’ face. “You are so beautiful.”

“Why do you say this?” Laurens asks – he knows, he knows what it must mean but his mind scurries away from it, will not face what Hamilton’s words and posture proclaim. “What do you mean?”

Hamilton pulls both his arms down now. He turns his one arm just enough for Laurens to see the blood stain high up on Hamilton’s inner bicep.

Laurens chokes and feels as if he may vomit. “No…”

“I must have you know how much I have cared for you, my love, and how I wish you to live long and happy even without me.”

“No.”

“This is not the end here, you must promise me so.”

“No, Alexander, I will not hear this.”

Hamilton grasps Laurens’ hand. “You must, there is no choice. I tell you all this so you remember and are never in doubt of the affection I had for you.”

“Alexander, please…” Laurens stares at the bloody spot on Hamilton’s arm, the torn wool of his uniform and stained linen of the shirt beneath.

Hamilton leans in and kisses Laurens hard again. Laurens kisses him back, lips and familiar taste and the warmth of Hamilton’s cheek under his hand – he remembers the first time, a candle blown out in their office and Hamilton’s hand on his neck, how both their breath’s stuttered with the thrill and how fevered their skin with the intensity of finally, _finally_. 

Hamilton pulls back with a soft noise then reaches into his belt. He pulls out his pistol – Laurens remembers with cruel clarity how Hamilton never fired it during their flight here.

Laurens clenches his teeth. “No.”

“Please, Laurens. It will not be long. Remember, with Tilghman…”

“No. You cannot ask me this.”

Hamilton takes Laurens’ hand and pushes the pistol into it. “I would not become a monster. I would not have you see me like that, remembering me last with nothing behind my eyes, not memory or love for you in them. Would you let that happen to me?”

“Please, I…” Laurens looks down at the pistol. “I do not think I…”

“You must,” Hamilton insists so Laurens looks up at him again and Hamilton’s stricken expression. “There is no choice.”

Laurens shakes his head, a gasp in his voice, “You ask me to kill you!”

“I ask you to save me.”

Laurens gasps hard again, tears held back in his eyes. He wants to scream, he wants to shoot anything else, anyone else, he wants to cry out so his lungs burn and his knees give way. Hamilton steps close before Laurens, tangles his fingers in Laurens’ other hand.

“My dear Jack, please, my beauty, my dearest. Jack, I am asking you to save me.”

Laurens breathes in deeply, the sun through the window adds a glow to Hamilton’s red hair, no hat on his head. His blue eyes shine dark and alive, jewels fit for a crown – eyes and hair laid on the pillow beside Laurens, his first sight upon waking.

“I love you,” Laurens says quietly, “you must know that too.”

“I do.” Hamilton smiles then blows out a breath. “Thank you.”

Laurens swallows the wail in his throat. Then he pulls up the pistol, cocks it and puts it to the side of Hamilton’s head. Laurens breathes in sharply and Hamilton squeezes his other hand tight. Laurens’ pistol hand shakes.

“Jack, please –”

Laurens pulls the trigger and the shot near deafens him. Hamilton pitches forward, his face knocking into Laurens’ chest. Laurens stands frozen, his mouth open and the pistol still up in his hand. Then Hamilton’s body slides down against Laurens until his head knocks against the floor, body curled about Laurens’ feet. Hamilton does not move again.

Laurens’ hand begins to shake. He reaches out and puts the spent pistol down on the table just within reach. He lets his arms fall slack at his sides as he stands staring about the room, some room strange and unfamiliar, almost like a closet with the furniture pushed about, the supplies stacked around. It is wrong, it is insulting, it is not somewhere someone so passionate and charismatic and intelligent and vital and beloved should die. Laurens swallows once then twice, the feeling of bile rising at the back of his throat. He blinks fast, breathes through his nose. He wants to move, to step back, to do something.

Laurens finally looks down. Some of Hamilton’s hair lies in his face, the blood on the floor a near perfect match in color. Laurens kneels down, almost without his own will. He touches Hamilton’s cheek, pushes the hair away from his face. Laurens remembers General Washington behaving in the same manner. Laurens gasps hard, grips Hamilton’s chin with both hands and turns his face upward.

“Oh, Alex…” Laurens whispers.

When Meade finds Laurens, gone to investigate the sound of the gunshot, Laurens sits cross-legged on the floor, Hamilton’s head in his lap. Laurens does not weep, merely touches Hamilton’s cheek and hair, a blank expression on his face. 

Laurens does not answer Meade’s questions for many minutes until Laurens finally says, “I saved him.”

 

The combined forces of the Continental Army and the British Army and Navy fight and win against the undead plague of the American colonies. Though it takes them three more years of fighting – victories and setbacks – scouting the farthest reaches of the land to combat every undead walking or hidden among the cities and towns and back woods where people live. At the end of their fight, the British decide that such a punishment as the dead rising and thousands lost is enough. The British concede the war and give the colonies the freedom they first fought for.

At the end of the war, John Laurens still lives and still mourns. While the country rejoices in freedom, rebuilds from devastation, Laurens still hears ‘Jack, please’ from a lover’s lips and attempts to live on as a man lost wished of him.


End file.
